


Moral Ambiguity

by Zoeryl



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: 3x13, After the Fall, Angsty Will Graham, Blood Kink, Cabins, Cannibalism, Caretaking, Dark Will Graham, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Fugitives, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannigram - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Injured / Healing, Injury Recovery, M/M, Memory Palace, Murder Husbands, Mutual Pining, On the Run, POV Will Graham, Post-Canon, Post-Canon: After the Fall, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Protectiveness, Sexual Tension, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, The Fall - Freeform, Will Graham is So Done, hurt / healing, questionable motels, will misses his dogs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoeryl/pseuds/Zoeryl
Summary: . ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .If one is to court the devil, may as well bask in his glow.They've taken the plunge together, quite literally. After surviving their free fall into the Atlantic ocean, Will and Hannibal are adjusting to the peculiarity of their new lives. Thrust into hiding, their newly-minted fugitive status means they must remain far from prying eyes until things settle down. Alone in the woods and licking their wounds, they've suddenly found themselves with a lot of time on their hands. Maybe a little too much time.
Relationships: Chiyoh & Hannibal Lecter, Chiyoh & Will Graham, Chiyoh & Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 72
Kudos: 206





	1. Baptism

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all! So I've found myself re-watching Hannibal... and falling in love with the show all over again. The Season 3 ending leaves a lot to the imagination, and I've really wanted to write about these two for a long time <3
> 
> Written mostly from Will's POV, with some third-person insight into what Hannibal and Chiyoh are thinking / feeling. This will be an ongoing story, adding to it when I can. Expect all the normal trigger warnings of the actual show to apply to this (blood, violence, cannibalism, alcohol, mind games, etc.). There may be explicit sex scenes in later chapters. 
> 
> Comments, critique, and suggestions are all welcome!! Feedback is what keeps me going, I really appreciate every comment. Thanks for reading!
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
>    
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *

**I.**

**Baptism**  
  


**.'.**

* * *

**_The Fall_ **

> _ It was a test. Wasn’t it? _
> 
> _ Flipping the coin in the air _
> 
> _ Before truly picking a side. _

The darkness hit fast and feverishly. The ocean felt solid, impenetrable, then heavy as it crushed in around Will Graham’s body. Frigid and all-encompassing. Seeping in every crevice. Chilling skin, muscles, blood, and bone. Lips forced open by sheer shock, water readily flooding empty lungs. 

> _ But not just any test. _

Caught in the undertow. Rush of force pulling, tugging down, battering limbs against obsidian rocks. Scraping skin against jagged stones. Every grasping hand batted away in a swift, merciless surge. 

> _ The last one.  _
> 
> _ The one that would give him an answer.  _

Will’s arms outstretched into the silvery gloom, but felt no other source of warmth from within the dark waters. His body was heavy, sinking in slow motion. 

> _ The final answer. _

During their descent, they had been entangled like a pair of courting eagles, talons entwined in the death spiral. Will remembered eagles.  _ Haliaeetus leucocephalus _ specifically. Remembered a passing discourse he had once shared with his psychiatrist when on the topic of trust. Doctor Lecter was encyclopedic in knowledge, all the intricacies of nature seeming to capture his interest. He had explained that eagles, in a way much more profound than primates, had mastered trust exercises. 

The only thing that separates a mated pair of the species was death itself. They performed a peculiar ritual called a cartwheel display to test their faith while courting. Soaring up to great altitudes, where the air is thinner, cooler. Still and serene. They lock claws together in that pristine heaven, then plummet in a free fall, holding on to their partners the whole way down. Breaking apart only just before the moment of impact.

Not all eagles would survive, nor all pairings. Some let go too soon and lost the trust of their potential mate. Others were too caught up in the ceremony that they never let go, impacting the hard ground in a fatal lover’s embrace. The death toll added up each year. It was a delicate balance between rapture and survival. The ultimate trust fall. 

Will had been much less poetic when making the impulsive decision to take his partner deep into the Atlantic with him. Hannibal had been impetuous and vengeful at times, so why couldn’t he too be justified in having a moment of improvisation? It felt like the final manifestation of a fever dream. Giving in to the fleeting fantasies intermingled with grandeur and morbidity. Listening to the darkest whispers in the corners of your conscience. 

But, for some reason, the memory of the eagles still stuck in his mind. 

The force of impact had separated Hannibal and Will, thrust apart into the darkness. Both adrift alone, each embroiled in their own struggle for survival. It would be so easy to let the ocean take back what the earth had so unceremoniously given birth to. 

> _ If God,  _
> 
> _ or whatever force  _
> 
> _ had led him down this path,  _
> 
> _ was willing to let him survive,  _
> 
> _ let both of them survive,  _
> 
> _ then he would have his answer. _

The spastic contractions of drowning lungs were starting, Will’s center mass convulsing as a fog tore across his mind. The water filling his chest stabbed and burned. Whoever said that drowning was peaceful hadn’t tried it themselves. 

> _ And if that force,  _
> 
> _ be it divine intervention, _
> 
> _ kismet, _
> 
> _ or sheer  _
> 
> _ dumb  _
> 
> _ luck,  _
> 
> _ were not so forgiving, then he would accept his fate.  _
> 
> _ Sinking down the hungry wendigo with them both. _

The cold was beginning to be a comfort, a moonlit blanket tangling him in the depths. The chest spasms were fading, panic melting into platitude. Last reserves of adrenaline were all but used up in the frenzied, all-consuming slaying of Dolarhyde. The itch for survival was relenting. Struggle giving way to numb consent. 

> _ Was it all _
> 
> _ worth it? _
> 
> _ He’d experienced more _
> 
> _ life-altering events  _
> 
> _ in the past ten years _
> 
> _ than ten lifetimes combined. _
> 
> _ His belt was not short of notches. _

> _ But there was still _
> 
> _ something he would  _
> 
> _ regret  _
> 
> _ not having. _
> 
> _ Not having allowed himself _
> 
> _ to possess.  _

The water stirred around him, muted echoes of liquid movement. The shockwaves came down towards him, as a sliver of warmth descended from the surface. Will had forgotten which direction was up. But through blurry eyes, he could barely make out the ghostly shimmers of moonlight that began to swirl in the water above his body. 

An arm reached out to his head, hand cutting through the cold Atlantic. Fingers searched blindly in the dark, finally finding the wisps of brown curls dancing about in the undulation of the waves. Warm fingers gripped his hair, grappling with the loose locks until a firm hold was found. He was forcefully ripped from the water, pulled by his hair. The pain shooting down his scalp was tolerable compared to what the rest of his body was experiencing.

The blurry bubbles of silver light came closer and closer, his body thrusting upwards in a churning roil of foamy waves.

He broke the surface, greeted by a chaotic world of harsh sounds, biting wind, and the intermingling scents of blood and water. Arms instinctively flailing about, reaching for the nearest object he could anchor himself to. 

The familiar hands that had brought him forth from the depths were there to toss him into the black rocks. Will’s own wet trembling fingers scrabbling against the roughness, his torso finally out of the water, legs still dangling in the shoals. 

His breaths came like the damp, guttural clamor of a newborn as he spewed water from his mouth. A sharp elbow collided with the center of his back, forcing him to purge his lungs. 

Moored to the rock beside him, Hannibal was struggling to regain his own stamina, a hand now pressing onto Will’s shoulder to ensure neither would fall back into the black waves. Wet clothes clinging tightly to both their bodies, the swirls of red fading into a rosy gloss as the brine diluted the blood stains. 

“F-fuck…” Will’s voice came weakly, stuttering. Lips cold, gasping for air. His eyes traced the dusky contours of his partner’s bruised face. “Will nothing kill you?”

“I’m still searching for the answer to that, myself.” Hannibal quipped, through ragged breaths. He gave Will’s back another sharp smack, aiding in easing another coughing fit. Will repressed a smile, nails digging deeper into the gravelly surface. 

“Immortality…” Another jarring squall of coughs interrupted him. “It suits you.” 

“Dickinson said ‘Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.’” Hannibal’s gaze drifted towards the cliffs from which they’d fallen. 

Will pressed his face to the wet rocks, feeling the sting of the salt in his facial wounds. He didn’t bother answering. How very  _ Hannibal Lecter  _ it was to remark on the profound in the midst of crisis, while the pair were still on the verge of death, having crawled their way out of yet another mess. Will wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with the gravity of those words. Loved was certainly not the first word that came to mind when he thought of Lecter. But there was no denying that whatever force drove him back to Hannibal again and again was just as strong as love. Stronger, maybe. Addiction, obsession, fascination, mania, some sort of destructive sado-masochism...

Will coughed hard again, his lungs burning. Whatever the words for it may have been, now was not the time to analyze it too deeply. He’d have plenty of time to overthink it if they made it through the dawn. 

For now, it was raw and real; it felt good to have survived and be beside him. That’s all that seemed to matter at the moment: the way their bodies pressed into each other, holding the tension steady so as to keep themselves afloat. 

They let the ocean fill the silence between them, until the chill became too great to ignore any longer, shivers running through their huddled frames. They had rested just long enough to recoup a fragment of energy. The journey forward was daunting, but their newly-achieved fugitive status ensured they could not risk lingering.

The pair descended from the island of rocks and made their way to a distant shoreline. Far enough from the house on the bluffs so as to not be immediately found by prying eyes. Hannibal, being the practiced swimmer, was supporting Will’s limp body most of the journey until they were in shallow enough water to wade. 

“We really must-” Hannibal winced, feeling the hole in his abdomen stretch under the tension “-get you into better shape, Will.” He supported his partner with an arm around the midsection. The shadow of a smirk dancing on his stoic face. “You act like you just fell from a cliff.”

Their eyes met fully for the first time since their embrace prior to the fall. They held each other’s gaze, with as much tenacity as they had in the prison van ride. 

A small laugh caught in Will’s throat at first. Hannibal returned it with a soft smirk. Two dark, damaged figures welcoming the break of dawn. Collapsing into the sand. Huffing out breath after breath, smiles weakly tugging at the corners of each of their mouths. Coated in sand, blood, and brine. The first tiny peaks of sunlight glinted on tangles of wet hair. Their skin clad with loose pebbles, soggy wounds beginning to cake with the salty grit. 

Will began to let loose a torrent of unbridled laughter, rolling his head gently into Hannibal’s chest. The elder of the pair was only held in surprise for a moment, before unwittingly melting into Will’s embrace, resting his chin on that mat of brown curls. Laughing gently together, hands gripping each other's shirts tightly. Both caught up in the irrational mirth of the situation. The entire absurdity of the moment, of this free fall into uncharted territory. A lurid descent into madness, into selfish decadence, into real honesty with yourself. Honesty with what they both were now. 

This final act of mutual destruction, it seemed, held no ill will in Hannibal’s mind. Thus far, his gaze nor his mannerisms held the tautness of resentment, nor the intent to harm. The wrath of the lamb was to be expected. The apprentice had proven himself to be just as deadly as his mentor. Games, tests, he could endure from his protege. As long as they were finally honest with one another, and more importantly, with themselves. 

Will’s hands casually drifted along the sweater his partner wore, until his fingers stumbled upon the tattered edges of an exit wound. He toyed with the fabric, pressing towards it, letting his hands slip beneath until he felt the hot blood slowly leaking out. Hannibal winced, inhaling sharply. 

Will drew back, pulling his body away. He tore the sweater slightly to get a better visual. “That-” His eyebrows raised slightly. “-is well beyond my scope of first aid.”

“It missed my spine. But based on location, I’m certain it lacerated my intestines.” Hannibal’s breath was still strained. “Not something a field suture could remedy anyways.” 

Will licked his cracked lips, tasting the brine. An unsettling mixture of sympathy and satisfaction surged through him as he watched Lecter endure the pain. His eyes were glued to the slippery red maw obscured by remnants of sweater thread. A cavity that lazily gushed a little more blood with every labored breath Hannibal took. A rhythmic pulsing of flesh and blood. It blossomed like a sanguine rose in his mind. Petals sensually unfurling as a tangle of dark, verdant vines clad with sharp thorns poured out from the innards.

Hannibal noticed Will’s fixation, his unwavering gaze. A playful smile flashed across Lecter’s face for an instant. “What a shame I can’t mend it myself.” He stated plainly. “A lifetime spent cultivating a skill set and yet a doctor is still reliant on others for the most vital of moments.” He watched as Will’s concentration broke, his head snapping up as a look of shame flushed his cheeks. 

Gratified, Hannibal continued. “I still have a few favors left to call in. Connections that could be  _ persuaded _ to be discreet.” 

He lifted a hand to Will’s shoulder, where a torn shirt revealed a deep puncture wound. Trailed his fingers up Will’s neck, until they found the raw gaping slit that fell along his cheek. Delicately traced around the long carving. Will closed his eyes and turned his chin instinctively, allowing the doctor to examine him. The salt water had washed away much of the blood, leaving the glistening pink flesh exposed. It was reminiscent of raw chicken breast. The irony was not lost on Hannibal. 

“Now, _that_ , I can fix.”

Will opened his eyes slowly, returning his partner’s silent gaze. Did he fully trust Hannibal to fix anything? That question had deeper implications, stretching towards their future endeavors. Did he trust him to guide the direction of both of their lives. Did he have a choice, either way?

Hannibal made an effort to rise to his feet, one arm pressing hard into his abdominal wound, laboriously tucking the sweater into the bullet hole to dam up the flow of blood. He reached out his free hand to Will who hesitated a moment.

“Hannibal.” He began.

“Will.”

“If I give myself over to this-” He paused. “-to you.” 

“You already have, Will.”

The realization had taken hold in a split second. It took the air out of his lungs, but felt like a lifeline, sorely needed. Things could never be the same after the Great Red Dragon had been slain. He was beginning to understand that. 

It was a test. A question. Their survival was the answer. Hannibal was right, this had consummated their relationship. Will already belonged to him. 

> _ There. He had it. _
> 
> _ The final answer. _
> 
> _ He had never believed in luck _
> 
> _ Or at least,  _
> 
> _ not in the idea of it  _
> 
> _ having much consequence. _
> 
> _ But fate? That was harder still _
> 
> _ To wrap the mind around _

Will studied the droplets of sea water clinging to the hairs on Hannibal’s arm as it lay outstretched to him. In each tiny orb of liquid he saw a reflection of himself.

> _ But at least  _
> 
> _ With fate, _
> 
> _ As with God, _
> 
> _ You could lift the blame _
> 
> _ Onto someone else’s shoulders. _

He inhaled deeply, savoring the spark in the air. He lifted his shaking arm and grasped Hannibal’s hand firmly. Knuckles white, muscles taut, as he rose to his feet and faced the rising sun.


	2. Bitter Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *

**II.**

**Paradiso Amaro**

**_The Bitter Paradise_ **

**_.'._ **

* * *

> **_00:01:07 hrs after the Fall_ **

“Ah, a sight for sore eyes.” Hannibal directed his attention to a silent figure painted against the rosy horizon. “I was curious as to when, or rather  _ if _ , you might decide to intervene.” 

Chiyoh stood at the top of the embankment, feet firmly planted on the gravel below. Her trunk unwavering, as her dark jacket flapped clamorously in the harsh wind. Lips pursed, she cautiously loosened her grip on her rifle as she observed the pair: Inelegantly ambling towards her, arms crossed over each other’s shoulders for mutual support. Beads of sweat clinging to their foreheads, wet hair plastered to bruised skin. 

They had traversed a great distance from where the sea spat them up, albeit at a pace that could only be described as painfully slow.

Chiyoh silently made eye contact with Will. Her reticent glance made it impossible to differentiate whether she was pleased to see him alive or disappointed in the path he had thrust them all on to. She stepped back over the ridge and out of sight for a moment. 

In her absence, the discordant grumbling of tires christened the morning. The scent of gasoline saturated the air. An inconspicuous black sedan crested the hill before turning sideways towards them. Chiyoh exited the driver’s seat and opened the rear doors. Hannibal tilted his shoulder down to allow Will into the car first.

“You are-” He groaned, heaving himself towards the open door. “-never short of surprises, my dear.” 

* * *

> **_00:01:39 hrs after the Fall_ **

There it was again, the unnerving glare. Will could see her watching him through the rear view mirror. Sharp brown eyes. Was it bereavement at their injuries? Probably not, she certainly wasn’t void of emotion but not overly sentimental either. Or was it fury directed at Will himself for endangering the life of her charge? More likely than the first idea. She was and always would be Hannibal’s protector, despite the antithetical dynamic between them. 

The words she once spoke to him resonated in his mind. ‘ _ There are means of influence other than violence.’  _

Will let his exhausted eyes shut slowly. The thought amused him. _Try telling that to the homicidal outlaw beside me._ He toyed with the idea a moment, contemplating Chiyoh’s anti-violence resolve before tossing out the notion. _Goes against his nature._ _And my nature._ A sobering realization. 

He let the muscles in his neck loosen, eeking out a painful whine as he did so. Head now resting upon his partner’s shoulder. 

Hannibal was still, nearly motionless save for the occasional bump in the dirt road that sent them both into the air. A sickly rasp replaced the sound of steady breathing. Will opened his eyes, tilting towards him. He nudged Hannibal with his elbow, slapped a hand across his arm. Smacked his cheek. No response, save for a slack jaw and heavy eyelids. 

“Chiyoh-” Will alerted her.

She had already thrust her foot down onto the gas pedal as hard as physically possible, the car hurtling onward down the winding road. 

* * *

> **_00:03:16 hrs after the Fall_ **

Hannibal’s assertion about the internal damage had been correct. Punctured ascending colon and small intestine. Peritonitis, eventual sepsis would have been the outcome had intervention not come sooner. It would have been a slow and grotesque death, rotting from the inside out as your own bowel contents turned your internal cavity into a microbial cesspit. A surgery, helpfully coerced into secrecy by an armed Chiyoh, pulled him back from the brink. A blood transfusion to replenish what was lost, internal organs sutured, bullet fragments extracted, entry and exit wounds stitched shut. Bandages placed around his abdomen. They would need changing, constant care for the next several weeks. 

His condition was still tentative but the worst outcome had thus far been averted. Still, he remained unconscious. 

“He was holding himself together for you. Once he knew you were safe, he let go.” She had told Will. Hannibal had hovered past his breaking point, well beyond what adrenaline should have allowed for. His body had refused to collapse until his ward was safely under Chiyoh’s watchful eye.

Will’s injuries were more immediately visible. His face had been stitched shut and bandaged. Shoulder wound lavaged with saline. He’d fractured a rib in the fall but the only resolution for that was waiting for it to mend itself. In the meantime, it was incredibly painful to breathe deeply.

They were temporarily holed up in an un-celebrated motel, under alternative identities and paid for with cash. Once again, courtesy of Chiyoh.  _ What on earth (or in hell for that matter) had Hannibal done to deserve her?  _ Will was grateful, whatever the real reason that possessed her was.

The motel room was small, grim, and less than pleasantly aromatic. Had Hannibal been conscious, he surely would have protested. But it had two beds and a fold out cot, which would do for the time being. Hannibal’s sleeping figure was positioned in one of the beds.

“Sleep. I will watch over him.” Chiyoh sat bolt upright in the chair beside his bed, her back positioned into the corner of the adjoining walls. A tactically safe position from which she could see all angles. 

She studied Will as he supported his weight on the door frame, eyes inquisitively running over the rise and fall of Hannibal’s chest. 

She saw what she interpreted as concern in his gaze. “I’m tethered to him, as you are. But I’m the shadow hunting the creature that cast it. He possesses me like a ghost. You’re the one yoked to him, who shares his burdens. He’ll rise for you. When you return.” She paused, her tone softening. “So,  _ sleep _ .” 

Will nodded, as much of a response as he could manage given the condition he was in. He stumbled towards the bed that had been prepared for him.

Every pliable sinew, each structural fiber of his physical form ached for rest. His body lusted after respite.

He felt as though he could sleep for days. 

And so he did.


	3. Room Service

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *

**. ' .**

**_III._ **

**_Room Service_ **

**. ' .**

* * *

> _Sunrise. Sunset. Repeat._
> 
> _To be a fly on the wall_
> 
> _Those first tenuous days_
> 
> _Watching the shadows and figures_
> 
> _Dance about in fast motion._
> 
> _Two ailing patients_
> 
> _And their stalwart guardian_
> 
> _Who neither slept nor ate,_
> 
> _Her movements nearly imperceptible_
> 
> _Through the rapid passing of time._
> 
> _Sunrise. Sunset. Repeat._
> 
> _Dusty curtains closed_
> 
> _like the velvet lining of a coffin._
> 
> _Around the sanctum_
> 
> _Where three strange bedfellows_
> 
> _Sought refuge_
> 
> _Beneath the ceaseless buzzing_
> 
> _Of a neglected neon sign._
> 
> _Sunrise. Sunset. Repeat._

* * *

> **Wednesday, 1:39pm. 3 days after the Fall**

The midday sun crept in lazily through the moth-chewn holes in the thick window drapery. The darkened room was poorly insulated, allowing the solar warmth to leach in. It created a soothing, den-like environment that would have made even the most lively of individuals want to curl up and take a nap.

Chiyoh rested with her elbows on her knees, back curled over like a stretching cat. The unabating hum of the air conditioner was a decorous lullaby melding into the motel soundtrack. She had rarely ventured from her spot for the past several days, enthroned on the armchair beside Hannibal. Her tenacity knew no bounds, but even the strongest of minds was subject to the frailties of the body. Her strength was waning, sleep beckoning her. 

It began with a yawn. Next a slackened neck, then a cheek resting on one palm. Inch by inch, her eyelids came to rest lower. And lower still. Until a shade of black blurred her vision, and she succumbed to a moment of rest.

"I think you've earned that." The weak rasp of Hannibal’s voice startled her back awake.

Regaining her defensive posture, she tilted her chin down towards Hannibal. These were the first words that he had uttered voluntarily since their return from the infirmary. He lay on his back, white pillows propping up his head, arms laying at his sides on top of the quilt that was pulled up to his chest. His skin was sallow, eyes sunken into dark pits. Arms and face mottled with purple bruises, each tinged with a ring of yellow around the lesions. His clothes were absent, save for undergarments.

"I've earned nothing.” She countered casually.

He observed the room. A few empty coffee cups littered about the bedside table. “I assume you’ve been sheltering us here for quite a while.” He pressed his dry lips together. “Have you stayed here, the entire time?”

“I did not want to leave until you were in a conscious state.”

“I’m grateful for that.” His expression held a trace of concern. 

“This is my choice to be here.” She stifled a yawn.

"As much your choice as it is for me to be _here_." He motioned down at the bed, highlighting the fact that he could hardly move without great effort.

A flash of amusement appeared in her eyes, before they returned to their clear, steady condition. Turning her head towards the other twin bed positioned across the room, she gestured towards Will. He slept with his back towards them, the only visible portion of his body was the disheveled mess of unwashed curls upon his head. The blankets were bundled around his shoulders, obscuring his figure. The quilt rose and fell in a soft, slow rhythm. Resembling the form of a sleeping grizzly bear, hibernating for the winter.

"You're awake before him, your _nakama_."

He recognized the word, charmed at the inference that its use suggested.

Clearing his sore throat with as much grace as his weakened state would allow, he studied his new surroundings. "Where are we, Chiyoh?"

“West of the Appalachians. A small town. Goshen. Virginia. Big enough to be on a map. Small enough to be overlooked.”

“No doubt named after _Eretz Gošen,_ the Land of Goshen. Where the Biblical Exodus took place. The enslaved Hebrews surmounting extraordinary odds, crossing the Nile into freedom.” He paused a moment, considering something. He tentatively peeled back the sheets covering his bare chest, peering down at the gauze dressings that spun themselves like a cocoon around his midsection. Crusted blood clinging to the fringes. Wine-dark contusions marring his flesh, spreading out from beneath the bandages like an expanding pestilence. 

He inhaled deeply, deciphering the minutia of aromatic notes. Antiseptic iodine, saline. Necrotic tissue. Wound exudate. The powder residue from nitrile gloves. He continued his analogy, his voice growing flat and sullen. “Short-lived ecstasy, though it was. Wandering the desert for decades.”

“Maybe that is fitting. Freedom is never what we expect.” She thought of independence she’d gained when her prisoner breathed his last. Still trying to gather together her intentions for an uncertain future. 

A contemplative moment of silence shared between the two, as they both allowed their minds to wander. 

“As _comfortable_ as our current domain is, we can’t remain here for much longer.” Hannibal finally stated. He did not even try to mask his distaste of their meager accommodations. But there was no malice in his tone. What he said rang true. 

“I know.” She brushed a strand of silky black hair out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. She could use a hot shower. And a good night’s sleep. “I don’t know as much of your life here, where you would retreat to if something like this came to pass. But I am certain you’ve prepared for this moment, set aside a safehouse.”

“And right you are to assume as much.” 

Chiyoh nodded in acceptance. She was no longer fighting for him to be caged.

“Are you watching over us both, Chiyoh? Or are you guarding me from him?”

“Had to be sure he would not try again.”

“I don’t believe either of us is in a state to even entertain that idea.” Hannibal turned his neck with some effort, watching Will’s sleeping form. “How is he?”

“He will live. He’s been in and out of the waking world. Mostly out.” The solemn expression resting upon her face was telling, especially to someone as perceptive as Lecter. Hannibal recognized her displeasure at the union he and Will had formed.

“You don’t approve.” He said it more like a question than an affirmative statement.

“You are deadlier together than apart, but especially for one another.” She paused, taking a moment to study the fervent concentration with which Hannibal watched Will sleep. “Your life is your own to take. It was not his choice.” 

He turned his attention back to her. “Some might argue with that logic.”

She was far too exhausted to engage in a debate of ethics with him. She leaned backwards towards the window and peered outside through the cracks in the curtain, pretending to be engaged in surveillance. 

“Your own moral code comes at a price, Chiyoh.”

“So does yours, Hannibal.”

“ _Yours_ ensured you kept me alive. I likely would not have survived, had you not shown up when you did. You would be freed of your last remaining burden had that been the case.” He watched her closely. “Surely that must hold some appeal.”

She rose to her feet, exasperated with her charge. 

“Ask me again. If I’m still here in a week.”

He smiled humbly, and made a mental note to do just that.

  
  
  


* * *

> **Thursday, 6:47pm - 4 days after the Fall**

The trio sat encircled about a wobbly faux-wood table. A plastic bag of groceries was splayed open on the dingy surface before them. The bag was inked with a generic _‘have a nice day’_ poorly printed across its wrinkled exterior. A stylized, canary-yellow smiley face sat beneath the words. It somehow made the dull motel room appear even more cheerless. 

Spilling out of the sack was a collection of convenience store finds. Pre-packaged microwavable meals, tin cans of chicken noodle soup, bags of snack food, and a few apples (whose freshness was questionable.) Paper plates, solo cups, and plastic cutlery were the settings at their dinner table. A far cry from anything they were used to. There were no major grocery stores in Goshen, and no surrounding towns close enough to justify the drive. Given that, and the fact that their only cooking appliance was a two-decade-old microwave, their options were ready-made meals courtesy of the local gas station. Chiyoh was the only one of the group who could risk being seen in public, so she had been the designated provider. 

“Thank you, my dear.” Hannibal graciously took the plastic bowl that Chiyoh handed him.

“ _When in Rome_ …” Will remarked dispassionately, digging a plastic spoon into a can of spam. He turned to face Hannibal, who seemed to be handling the situation remarkably well. “I’m surprised it doesn’t bother _you_ more.” 

“On the contrary, Will,” He paused to finish chewing. “It bothers me greatly.” He dabbed a paper napkin against the corners of his mouth. “But I’m all about survival.” His lips curved upwards. 

“Your own survival, at least.” Will quipped with a faint smile, picturing the screaming maw of one of his _entrees_. 

“On the topic, we should discuss our next leg of the journey.”

“Growing tired of Goshen already?” Will questioned, his tone edging on playful. 

“Aren’t you?”

Will shrugged nonchalantly in response. He’d seen worse. Much worse. But a fresh change of clothes and more private sleeping quarters would be appreciated. 

“I’ve set aside a large tract of land, originally part of an investment portfolio.” Hannibal looked almost jovial at what he was about to reveal. “Land is always a good investment.” He took a sip of water from a blue solo cup. “There’s a cabin, prepared and stocked with the necessities.”

“Where at?” Will had shoved aside the spam, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort of repressing his gag reflex. Hannibal’s cooking had really spoiled him. 

“Outside of Reliance, Tennessee.”

“Tennessee?” Will repeated, with amused incredulity. “Hannibal Lecter owns a cabin in Tennessee?”

“Yes.” 

It hurt to laugh. Hurt much more than he expected. But the reward was greater than the pain. 

Hannibal placidly endured Will’s continuing laughter, which sounded more like the dying grunts of a wild hog as he tried desperately to stifle the agonizing coughing fit that accompanied it. 

Hannibal waited until the room was quiet again before continuing. “I can’t say my fondness for it extends greater than that of the East Coast. But the American South does hold its own charm. Especially Appalachia.” 

Chiyoh let a thinly veiled grin play upon her lips. She was enjoying the entertainment Will and Hannibal’s exchanges offered. How often they would engage, and seem to forget there was anyone else in the room. She sipped slowly on her sun-bleached green bottle of iced tea. It tasted like it had been in the vending machine a few _years_ too long. 

“Appalachia is as consumed by deep-rooted tradition and cultural lore as any New England society. Just of a different taste.” Hannibal took another apathetic bite of the microwaved rice. “Predilection for the area is beside the point either way, as we have limited options now.”

“No, no _I get it_ . It’s just-” Will grinned. “Unexpected.” He cleared his throat, trying to breathe deeply once again. His tone steadied and he returned himself to a more dignified state. “It’s the last place anyone who knew you would expect. Rural Tennessee is far from aristocracy, from fine dining and lavish opera houses. Far from the… _creature comforts…_ you’ve afforded yourself in more urban places like Baltimore. Or Florence.” 

“I’m aware.” 

Hannibal allowed for a brief pause. “It’s secluded, surrounded by hundreds of acres of state land. The roads around it are rarely travelled.” He paused to chew. “There’s Wolf Creek. Which weaves through the property. An extension of the Hiwassee River, on the edge of the plot. A tailwater frequented only by the occasional fly-fisher.”

“Seems more to my taste than yours.”

“Perhaps it is.” Hannibal made sure to catch Will’s eyes before returning to eating his humble meal. 

Will mulled over the thought. Was this a sacrifice, made for his benefit? It was no secret that he preferred the company of woods and wildlife to that of other humans. His idea of the perfect _home_ was in opposition with what Hannibal’s was. How long ago had he made this _investment_ …? 

“I’ve never been to Tennessee.” Chiyoh chimed in unexpectedly, breaking the silence. Her tone still coolly detached, giving away no real sign of excitement, or lack thereof. 

“Then, it will be an enlightening experience for us all.” A spark of genuine pleasure flashed across Hannibal’s face for a moment before disappearing back into the dim atmosphere of their Goshen motel room. 

* * *

  
  


> **Monday, 4:03am - 8 days after the Fall**

  
  


There’s something delicate, intimate, about awakening just before the dawn. Like sliding into the sheets of the next day before fully parting with the last. It's one of the loneliest stretches of time. Nocturnal creatures are already tucking themselves in, and diurnal beasts are yet to greet the morning light. 

The pre-dawn was tinged with a damp chill, and Will could see the wispy swirls his breath produced when mingling with the air. He stood in the parking lot behind the motel, a handful of grocery bags at his feet in preparation for loading. A hotel blanket was wrapped loosely around his shoulders. He wore the only set of clothes he had at this point. Despite being washed, they still bore the burgundy-sepia blood stains. Rips and tears throughout, they were in rough shape. 

He leaned against a silver Oldsmobile Alero, circa 1990s, that was parked beneath a grove of trees at the edge of the parking lot. He watched as Chiyo twisted a wire coat hanger into a hook shape and peeled back the rubber seal along the driver’s side door. 

“Not above theft, are we?” The tension remaining between the two was palpable. For the past week, Will had been dizzily straddling the fence between the polite neutrality of distant paramours, and downright antagonizing her. Moments of gratitude melting into feverish jealousy. He tried to chock it up to the tremendous amount of pain he was in. Or maybe it was the medications. Could be the shock to his system. He even entertained the idea of brain damage for a fleeting moment. 

She didn’t bother offering a wise platitude or kernel of ethics for her actions; she knew when conversation was beyond the point of saving. She kept working at the lock until she felt her makeshift jig catch. She gave it a sharp tug upwards and the lock released. Quietly triumphant, she removed the coat hanger from the window and opened the door, immediately reaching under the steering wheel and getting to work on hot wiring the engine. 

Hannibal’s shuffling figure appeared from around the corner of the motel. His pace was unsteady at best, struggling to mask the amount of pain he was in. Polite as per usual, he offered the passenger seat to Will and took one of the rear seats for himself. They sat together in silence, the engine now humming away. Chiyoh swiftly swapped license plates with another car in the parking lot before joining them in the car.

“So this is to be our Nile crossing.” Hannibal mused, watching the trees zoom by in the rear windows.

For Will, the initial ecstasy of freedom was waning. And in its place was a hollow sky with plenty of dark spaces to get lost in. Long car rides down lonely winding roads did nothing to help the matter. He pressed his head to the chilly glass, watching the streaks of sunlight rise gradually above the thicket of trees. 

He thought of Molly. He thought of Walter. Thought of each and every one of his surviving dogs, and a few that had long since passed beyond the veil. But gave extra time to the thought of Winston. 

He could feel Hannibal’s gaze on him, from the rear seat. And, every once in a while, he would catch his monster’s contemplative reflection in the window panes. 

He’d confronted another sunrise with Hannibal Lecter at his side.


	4. Twin Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *

** . ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ . **

**IV.**

**Twin Gods**

** . ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ . **

* * *

  
  


> **_Monday Evening, 11:19pm, 8 days after the Fall_ **

They’d lost a day in transit. Dawn melding into day. Day into dusk. 

Intentionally avoiding heavily travelled freeways, opting for distant back roads. Couldn’t risk their images being captured on toll road cameras or traffic surveillance. 

Their journey took them down country byways instead. Ruddy trails off the beaten path. Past tiny villages. Through sleeping ghost towns. A slow route, but one that was safer. And undeniably more scenic. 

A hush had descended upon the travelling companions. Quiet contemplation was the ruling force of the hour. Reality settling in like a shadow across the taut contours of their faces. Plenty of unpacified time to muse upon past injuries, current convictions, future intentions. 

Few words exchanged. Seldom spoken except for the essentials. Navigational assistance, route planning, gas station detours.

The only real discussion they had shared pertained to their curiosities about the police interpretation of their disappearance. Agreeing that the best case scenario was to be presumed dead, hoping the blood trail off the cliff was enough to convince most. Comforting was the idea, two ghosts picking out new haunts.

The jarring bumps and ocean-like undulations created by the serpentine mountain passes did nothing to ease them into conversation either. High dose painkillers, internal damage, and bumpy rides made for a nauseating combination. Hannibal bore the suffering well. Tactfully hiding his discomfort, the way a wild animal might in order to protect itself from vulnerability. 

But by the end of the journey it was obvious that Will, on the other hand, was simply miserable. His constitution had always been far weaker than that of his mentor. 

Will held his head out of the open window like a dog. Eyelids drooping, skin pale and lacquered with sweat. Nearly ready to get on his knees and start praying for an end to this torturous day.  _ Oh, God, how he wanted out of this car.  _

They’d been following a narrow, rambling dirt road for what seemed like an eternity. At least an hour’s drive from any town with a population higher than 200. None of them had seen any other vehicle, or a passing pedestrian for that matter, in the past thirty minutes. 

Curving around another bend, the car slowed. They came upon a lonely junction in the crescent-shaped valley of two rolling, tree-covered peaks. 

“Last turn. To the right, please, Chiyoh.” Hannibal gestured to one side of the crossroads. 

There were two paths, and the one to which the car now veered was clearly neglected. Overgrown with sweeping branches of briar bushes that scraped along the car as they passed through. Even with the headlights gleaming bright into the evening, it was hard to see what lay beyond the veil of hedges.

Hannibal fought the urge to quote Robert Frost’s most iconic poem, to illustrate the gravity of the moment. But another harsh dip in the road sent them all reeling. The pain was enough to quell that urge completely and entirely.

After a tumultuous trek, a metal gate came into view. It was short, its surface covered in chipped green paint. Tall enough, however, to block further entry into the property for any trespassing cars. Dangling from the rusted latch was a chain fastened together by a thick padlock. 

Hannibal stirred in the backseat. “Unfortunately, our-” He considered his words. “ - _ unexpected _ departure from Maryland hadn’t allowed time for me to retrieve the key.” 

Will silently rolled his eyes at the inflection. Head still hung listlessly out the window. 

“The rest by foot?” Chiyoh asked, unsurprised at this new setback. She put the car into park and turned off the engine.

“The rest by foot.” Hannibal echoed. 

Chiyoh unloaded what little belongings they had, carrying a canvas bag they had picked up at a rest stop. She handed off a jacket to Hannibal and stood at the gate to help him climb over it. 

“Are you coming, Will?” Hannibal’s voice remained light, not quite demanding. No response at first. “Going to sleep in the car, then, I presume?”

A slurry of sardonic replies, scathing insults, flooded Will’s mind. But his mouth refused to empty his frustration. He was much too tired, much too sickly to bother. He opened the car door and nearly tumbled out onto the ground. 

With the trio clear of the gate, they progressed deeper into the thicket. A small stone building lay just beyond the entry, formed from what appeared to be a former gatekeeper’s residence and retrofitted into a modest garage. From there, they followed a footpath through towering pines and draping willow trees.

The dense woods opened up into a circular clearing, exposing the full grandeur of the acreage nestled in the heart of the Appalachian wilderness. Revealing what could only be described as a vast estate. 

An orchard lay to the Western corner. Rows of thick, gnarled elder apple trees beside a column of trellised grape vines. An unkempt and weedy garden south of a glass greenhouse. Crumbling but elegant statuary lining a drained fountain. Sprightly stone figures of cherubim dancing about the grounds, with their moss-covered faces turned upwards towards the moon. Wry smiles welcoming their new guests. 

And at the center, a tall stone chalet, wrought with sharp angles and an ornately molded copper roof whose patina shown turquoise in the light of the stars. By no means a castle, nor a mansion, but above and beyond what anyone might consider the word “cabin” to apply to. 

Everything was in need of maintenance of some sort. But in every corner was the suggestion that at one point in time, perhaps a century prior, this place had been lovingly and expertly cared for. Designed with self-sufficiency, longevity and refined taste in mind. 

Though the climate had changed, the locale different in both culture and antiquity, there was still a sense of strange familiarity in the atmosphere. It was impossible to not draw a few comparisons between this property and the ancestral Lithuanian home of the Lecter family. 

Chiyoh exchanged looks with Hannibal silently. She recognized the appeal this smallholding had to him. Why he’d purchased it. A coalescence of sophistication and simplicity. Twin magnetism that supported not only his own forms of solace but some of Will’s as well. A place that, given time, could be made to feel like home to them. 

“A fitting retreat for the dead man.” Chiyoh stated. 

“Where new life can come into fruition.” Hannibal knelt down to retrieve a hidden key from beneath a loose stone in the sidewalk, grateful that he’d had the forethought to leave that one on the property. “Or, at the very least, a place to lick our wounds in the interim. Until we can find an opportunity to expatriate.” He twisted the key into the lock. “Which _may_ take some time given the state we’ve left things in.” 

The heavy wooden door scuffed along the stone floor as Hannibal heaved it open, exerting more effort than he should have in his current condition. “I doubt, if recaptured, I would ever again see the light of day. And I would dearly miss the scenery.” He smiled briefly, before crossing the threshold. 

The furnishings were mostly covered in white sheets, lending to an even more ghostly ambience. Hannibal collected a box of matches from a wooden bureau and began lighting the sconces that lined the foyer. Candles springing to life in the dust-laden air. 

“I’ll have to investigate the state of the generator in the morning. Until then-” 

“I don’t mind. Feels like home.” Chiyoh took a candle from him and began lighting the rest. 

Hannibal allowed himself the small pleasure of acknowledging how much he had missed her company. There is something irreplaceable about being accompanied by a person whose ancestral memories are the same as your own. 

Chiyoh unloaded their small stockpile of groceries, and began uncovering the furniture. She allowed her curiosity the slightest refrain from its tight leash, and followed the corridor to its end, discovering a set of closed doors. 

In the soft quietude of primitivity, Hannibal became acutely aware of Will’s absence. Limping his way back out to the yard, he found the younger man sitting on a stone bench beside the statuary garden. Will was hunched over, still looking quite queasy. 

The silver flicker of moonlight dodged to and fro behind quivering leaves. Gusts of cool mountain air swirled through the branches. Crisp lines of verdure, extending from dark spindly fingers reaching towards the violet sky. The dark before them bloomed like a midnight orchid. An aura of enchantment clung to the place. The way the tall prairie grass swayed beside the stone footpaths, swaths of fireflies ducking in and out of the foliage. 

Will’s eyes were fixated on a pair of statues that stood intertwined. Eroding stone, rough surfaces whose recesses and protrusions were illuminated in the argent moonlight. 

Will felt Hannibal’s slow approach, but did not turn his head to address him directly. “The former owner must have taken particular interest in Greek and Roman mythology.” 

“A fondness I can sympathize with.” Hannibal traced the veins of moss growing along the back of the bench beside his companion. 

“Gemini.  _ The twin gods. _ Am I correct, Doctor?” Will nodded towards the pair of male statues, their delicate marble forms leaning on one another. Arms woven across the distance between them, stony hands clasped together.

“Yes. Castor and Pollux. On a clearer night, you could see their constellation. Emblems of immortality and death.”

“Also, patrons of sailors.” Will interjected casually.

“Did you see them, on your way to Italy, with the dark Atlantic in your wake? Their bright stars guiding your journey.”

“Yes.” Will’s voice grew soft, his lips parted as if to continue. 

Hannibal waited a moment, but whatever the thought was, it was caught in Will’s throat. 

Still, no protraction from Will. 

Hannibal continued, filling in the silence. “Babylonian texts have their own version as well. They regarded them as guardians of the gates of the afterlife. Always depicted together, paired in eternity. Lugalirra on the left and Meshlamtaea on the right.”

“Arbiters of life and death. Minor gods deciding your fate. How fitting.” Will pushed the sweat-drenched curls back off his forehead.

“For Castor and Pollux, the only way they could both attain immortality was to remain together. Zeus gave Pollux an ultimatum. Pollux could reap the rewards of living in Mount Olympus, but he would have to do so alone. Or, he could  _ share _ immortality as a gift between himself and Castor.” 

Hannibal rested both hands on the back of the bench before continuing. “He opted for the latter.”

_ “Gemini United. _ They couldn’t survive their separation.” Will leaned backwards so that the pair shared the same space, his words echoing their meeting in the Uffizi gallery.

“No.” Hannibal replied, his tone bordering on serene. 

Will breathed heavily, forcing the warm air through his teeth. He changed the topic. “This place feels full of ghosts.”

Beads of sweat kept forming along the back of Will’s neck, nausea ebbing and flowing. 

“Does it suit you?” Hannibal asked after a pause. “ _ This place. _ ”

Will considered answering sincerely. Explaining his admiration of the intricate planning that went into their escape. Showing his satisfaction at the locale. How he was surprised that thought had been given to what he wanted. He knew it would please Hannibal. 

Seeing Will happy  _ would _ please Hannibal immensely, even if it wasn’t always shown in obvious ways. He could hear the desperation in Hannibal’s tone, despite how carefully his mentor attempted to hide it. But Will wasn’t ready for that prospect just yet. There was too much hot blood still swirling through the air between them. 

“The only thing-” He paused, lurching forwards and rising to his feet. “-that would suit me right now is finding the bathroom.”

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

The cool tile of the bathroom floor was a small comfort that kept Will grounded in the moment, as his illness reached its climax. He lay, spread inelegantly across the room. His head hanging over the porcelain bowl. Knuckles bleaching white as he hugged the rim of the toilet. 

“Helps the nausea.” Hannibal offered, placing a cold wet rag on the back of Will’s neck and pressing it against the skin.

“I don’t-” He paused to heave. “-normally get car sick. Or motion sickness of any sort.” He gripped the toilet bowl. “ _ Fuck. _ Can sail halfway across the world-” Another heave. “-to chase down  _ your  _ sorry ass. With no problems.” 

Hannibal very nearly grinned.

Oh,  _ God help him _ , the dry heaves again. “No sea sickness. But  _ now _ this.” Will very nearly laughed at his own sudden frailty. “ _ Now _ , this…”

“It’s likely the medication. Opiates have a unique effect on the peripheral and central components of the brain. They transcend the permeable part of the blood brain barrier. Increasing vestibular sensitivity. Vertigo, dizziness, poor balance and physical instability. Thus the vomiting.” 

“Great. That knowledge-” Voice laden with sickly sarcasm. “- _ really _ helps.” 

“How many have you been taking?”

He dodged the question. “We don’t all have your resolve,  _ Doctor _ .” In the past week, Will had discovered his tolerance for pain had certainly not heightened despite all the bodily trauma he’d experienced in the past few years. “Some of us are  _ human _ .”

Hannibal knelt down on the bathroom floor, a knee on either side of Will’s legs, straddling him in what could only be described as an inherently dominant position. He slid his hands along either side of Will’s waist, his grip firm on pliable hips as he began patting down the sides of Will’s legs. Fingers searching hungrily.

“ _ What the hell _ , Hannibal-” Will felt Hannibal’s warm hands slide into the pockets of his pants, body pressing against Will’s own sweat-covered skin. “ _ What _ exactly do you think you’re-”

Hannibal retrieved the orange prescription bottle. Hydrocodone. Successful, he pulled his body back away from Will’s, turning to sit along the edge of the bathtub. He shook the bottle and eyed the contents, noting the level of remaining pills. Will had been burning through them.

“You  _ could _ have asked.” Will griped, feeling violated. Like a child having their room searched for pot. 

“My intrusion would have garnered a similar reaction either way.” Hannibal made the effort to stand and hobbled to the door. “I’ll get you something for your stomach.”

Hannibal could admit to himself that he’d been less attentive concerning Will’s well being than he should have. His usual consideration of Will was hyper-focused, honed into the minutia of changes from each moment to the next. The way he looked, the way he smelled, the inflection beneath each word he spoke. But, for the past week, Hannibal’s vigilance had been slipping. Dealing with his own feelings of betrayal. Of doubt. Of emotional exhaustion. Mending mental and physical wounds. He wasn’t getting any younger, and his body was taking longer to heal this time around. He hadn’t noticed that Will was beginning to slip away from him. 

When Hannibal returned to the room, he presented Will with a glass full of a bubbling, translucent, caramel-colored liquid. 

“Ginger tonic.” He pressed it to Will’s lips, cradling his neck in the other hand. “Here. Drink.” 

Will obliged. 

He was ready for this day to finally come to an end. 


	5. A Silent Treaty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I've decided to try a different style / tone with this chapter and see how it fits. More of a present-tense instead of past. Sorry if it's a jarring change!
> 
> On another note, thank you all so much for the kind comments and feedback!!! I really love to hear what you guys think <3

* * *

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

* * *

The sheets lie in a pile on the floor. Collecting more dust in the dark room. Kicked off in the middle of the night by the bed’s feverish inhabitant. Will was, as much now as ever before, plagued by nightmares. They remained vivid. In the years since the encephalitis, the waking hallucinations had been subdued. But it felt like there was a part of his brain still in touch with the ethereal. By now, he’s quite sure that will always be the case.

The pain certainly isn’t helping him get back to sleep, either. God, it hurt to breathe still. He wears the medical brace tight around his chest which helps him from expanding his lungs too greatly. But it only does so much. Even the slight inhalations he was allowed would wrack his torso in agony. 

Six weeks. That was the estimate given to him. Six weeks to heal broken ribs. Today was only day nine. The realization makes him want to try for the cliff all over again. 

He thinks about how Molly would have chastised him for saying something so masochistic. He’s not sure if Hannibal would rebuke him. He wonders, though. 

Too often that line of thought travels his conscious. What Hannibal would think. What he would say. How he would react. In the plethora of situations Will had experienced without him these past three years, he couldn’t help but wonder how each and every circumstance might have been altered by Hannibal’s presence. From the mundane, everyday little affairs that were of no real consequence. To the deeply personal. The intimate moments that define us. 

Try as he might to separate himself, those questions remained and _still_ remain insistently, pervasively, _annoyingly_ , on his mind.

But curiosity, however intense, is not the same as consent. Now that it has been made abundantly clear that he _will_ get to be sharing daily life with Hannibal, he’s not sure he wants those questions to be answered. Fantasies can be swiftly entertained, and put away just as quickly. Reality was much harder to backpedal. 

Who knows what sort of rabbit holes they might chase each other down. 

He inhales slowly through his nose. The air is laden with a musty, archaic fragrance. The kind of scent that pervades old houses. Heavy curtains are still drawn, making it hard to tell what time of the day it is. He rises and peers out through the tall windows. Over the tree line he can see the distant orange glow of the rising sun. It’s barely daybreak, maybe 5:00am? 

Too early to be up considering their late arrival the night prior. 

But walking might take some of the pressure off his aching chest. He throws on his white t-shirt. Thinks about putting pants on, but honestly doesn’t feel like making the effort. Chiyoh and Hannibal have both seen him in more compromising attire over the past week, so what’s the point in modesty now. He heads for the door.

The bedroom he’s been given is closest to the river. In the daylight, the rapids are visible from the windows within. There’s a large fireplace in it, with an imposing mantle carved out of pale marble. Clearly intended as the master bedroom, judging by its size and grandeur. 

But Hannibal had insisted on giving it to Will. Last night, as they were preparing to retire. Practically ushered him into it after Will had beaten back the nausea enough to be mobile. 

Chiyoh had chosen her own room, again at the behest of Hannibal. Her room was at the end of the hall. Far enough for privacy, near enough for protection. 

Hannibal had waited patiently to select from what was left. A modest chamber with a small hearth. Across the hall from Will. 

_As if he’d have chosen anywhere else._ Will muses for a moment. Wonders if Hannibal’s motivating factor was affection or supervision.

He quickly slays his curiosity with a swathe of resentment. The anger bubbles up easily. He’s been holding onto it like a security blanket this past week. He’s well aware that he’s been treating his travelling companions with a temperament that’s been less than convivial. 

But he can’t stop. Like running full speed down a steep hill. If he stops, he’ll tumble. 

He’s not ready for _that_ fall yet. 

Anger was the bandage that covered the deepest, truest gouge. Bitterness was the distraction that kept his mind busy. Animosity was the guiding light that kept his subconscious out of the dark corners of his mind.

Anger kept him from realizing he'd already made up his mind the second they survived the fall. He could forget the words he'd started to speak on the beach. _If I give myself over to you._

He held onto his venom with as much ferocity as a scavenger when it stakes claim to bones. 

Because if he was angry, he found it harder to _feel_ love. And if he was hostile towards others, he was harder _to_ love.

_You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar._

Well, if that was true, then he was _damn_ well going to be vinegar.

Being unloved was simple. Self loathing came easily because it was straight forward. He knew the darkness that slept within himself, knew that it was inherently wrong. He was flawed. No moral ambiguity there. 

But being loved, _really_ loved, was complicated. It forced you to re-examine your preconceived notions about good and evil. Face all your inner demons. Because someone loved those dirty, wretched demons inside you just as deeply as they loved your angels. 

Made you realize that in between the black and the white was a sea of gray. 

Being loved was like floating perpetually along those blurry gray tides. 

No clear morals, no clear destiny. No exceptions, no deal-breakers. 

Love transcended all. 

And, that, was a terrifying thought. 

* * *

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

* * *

Will perches on the edge of the bed. He yawns and forgets for a second about the bandages on his face. He winces as the gauze and tape is pulled taught. He tongues the stitches, running the tip along every groove. Before it was sewn up, you could see straight through to the inside. Teeth and gums and wet maw. 

The bandages need changing. It’s bordering on unhealthy. And the wound should probably be looked at. He hasn’t yet been able to bring himself to look in the mirror. 

In the motel, he’d refused Chiyoh’s offer to clean it, inspect it. Hannibal was too weak at the time.

Something about having Chiyoh’s hands on his face, having her body so near to him again set his nerves on edge. Something like apprehension, insecurity. Their brief intimacy on the train had stuck with him in an unsettling way. Kissing Chiyoh’s lips was like tasting a part of Hannibal’s youth. _His becoming_. A piece that was locked away from Will due to time and circumstance. 

She had known Hannibal in a way that Will never would. There was envy in that notion. 

There’s a part of Will that wants desperately to taste those lips again. Get lost in them.

And a part of him that wants to see them carved from her pretty face. Preferably by his own blade.

He wonders if it will always be like this. Caught between two contradictory forces at opposite ends of the spectrum. 

Or if, one day, the levee will break. 

And if, on that day, he’ll be slave to one whim or the other. 

There’s a third option, of course. There always is. But he’s not yet in a state stable enough to consider _taming_ his demons. 

* * *

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

* * *

  
  


Most of the house is still clothed in darkness. Though as Will nears the front room, he can hear the hum of a generator outside. Running rough, but chugging along. 

The lights in the kitchen are on. 

And there’s warmth coming from the radiator pipes that line that hall. 

Someone has been busy. 

Will passes the door to the basement. He can hear the boiler running. It’s making an ungodly noise. Will takes mental note that he’ll probably be the one to have to fix it. But it doesn’t bother him. The prospect is actually the first thing he’s felt excited about in a while. It will keep his hands and mind occupied, once he’s feeling better.

There’s a soft din coming from the kitchen. The clattering of dishes. The flow of water. The opening and closing of drawers.

Will watches from the hall. Hannibal is unboxing stored kitchenware. Cleaning them, putting them away. It appears he’s the only other one awake at this hour. 

Will finds himself stuck staring. Sucked into the observation. Hannibal, alone, without awareness of being watched, without a mask. What a concept. 

He’s productive, busy preparing the house at a good pace. But there’s something about the way he moves that gives away his secret. He’s in great pain. He winces when he reaches high to put away bowls in the upper cabinet. He braces himself on the counter when he has to move from one end of the kitchen to the other. He takes time to _just breathe_ in between errands. There’s dark circles beneath his eyes. He clearly hasn’t been sleeping well. 

He disappears from the room for a moment, only to return with what appears to be a heavy crate of dishes. 

There’s a sudden snag in his step, and his face blanches white. Mouth open, teeth clenched. Must have been just the right footing to cause shooting agony up through the point of his hip bone that the bullet knicked. He hisses in pain and drops to the floor in a very undignified manner. The dishes tumble with him. Shattering across the floor. 

He pulls himself into a crumpled position, riding out the wave of pain until it relents.

Will considers helping. But for a moment, only.

He suspects that Hannibal doesn’t want anyone to bear witness to this level of weakness. 

_Vulnerability._

Bedelia’s words swirl around his mind again, as they often do. He wonders which his first instinct really was. To help? Or to take advantage while the lonely bird is in this very, very vulnerable state?

He watches as Hannibal picks up the shattered pieces of the plates. Kneeling now, he must be too weak to bend over for that long. Scoops up the shards patiently and lays them in a pile on the counter. He tries to get the smaller bits but suddenly rescinds his grip with haste. There’s a steady trickle of blood now dripping down his hand. 

He mutters something in a language that is foreign to Will. The exact words may be a mystery but the inflection makes it clear that it was some sort of obscenity. 

Will realizes he’s never actually heard him curse before. Using crude language, yes. But to have it leave his lips out of frustration, an impulsive remark? Not until now. 

It’s hard to to think about how he looks so frail, so much older. Threadbare and used up. Sitting on the kitchen floor, a dish towel wrapped around a bleeding hand. Leaning against the cabinets, head tilted back. Mouth slightly ajar as he pants softly, letting his legs fall limply to the floor. Defeated. An expression of weariness falling along all the gentle folds of his face.

Something stirs in Will. Like a moth fluttering beneath his ribcage. 

_Dear Bedelia. I’d rather help the broken bird._

He walks into the kitchen. 

Hannibal’s head pitches upwards in surprise as he attempts to straighten his posture. He probably knows it’s too late to conceal his weakness but tries all the same. 

Will pays it no mind either way. He sits down beside him on the cool tile floor, resting his back against the cabinets, mirroring the position Hannibal is in. They’re close enough that their shoulders brush together lightly.

Both remain silent.

They face forward, but take sideward glances at each other every now and again. Breathing in the warm air shared between them. Both leaning into the other’s body. 

When there’s so much to say, where does one even begin?

It doesn’t matter. The silence is welcome for the time being. It’s an old friend, even. 

Will outstretches an arm like an olive branch towards his companion. Palm up, hand open.

Somewhere in the minutia of Hannibal’s careful mask, Will thinks he sees a look of cautious elation. Hannibal accepts the gesture. He places his hand on top of the receptive palm. It’s warm and weathered. 

Will’s not ready to let the anger go yet. Not all at once. But, he thinks, they both need some peace.

They sit together like that, in comfortable quietude, and watch the sunrise through the window over the kitchen sink.

  
  
  


* * *

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

* * *

  
  


Steam swirls up from the porcelain tub as the hot water fills the basin. It’s one of those big clawfoot monstrosities. The kind with golden legs that look like little lion paws. Hannibal dips his wrist under the faucet to check the temperature. He adjusts the handles. They turn with a sharp creak.

Will pushes the bathroom door halfway closed. He’s not sure why, but it feels like the right thing to do. Chiyoh is still sleeping but he does it all the same. 

He begins to peel his shirt from his sticky skin. It doesn’t come off easily. His mobility is hampered by the stiffness of his injured shoulder and the pain in his chest. But he finally wrestles it off and drops it to the floor. 

Hannibal is at the bathroom sink now, rinsing the crusted blood from the cut on his hand. Reaching into the cabinet to pull out a bar of soap. He glances in the mirror and sees Will struggling with the chest brace. 

He dries his hands on a clean towel and turns to help. There’s still a visible hitch in his step, though he seems to be masking it as best he can. “Here.” 

Will lifts his arms to allow him access. Hannibal unlatches the brace and begins to unwrap it. Will feels the pressure release and immediately groans in pain.

“These are intended to be temporary. You shouldn’t be wearing it all the time.” Hannibal’s tone is clinical, not quite chastising. 

“Have you ever broken a rib, Doctor? It’s a bitch to breathe without it.”

“Shallow breaths will predispose you to pneumonia.” He pulls the brace free and hangs it on the back of the door. 

He observes Will’s bare chest. It’s still mottled with the yellow tinge of healing bruises. He raises a hand slowly to palpate the curves of his companion’s chest. He glances up at Will first to ensure the advance is wanted. But he can’t get a read on those dark, static eyes. So he pulls his hand back. Adjusts the tails of his own button up shirt and moves away, masquerading his departure as an errand to retrieve his medical bag from the sink counter.

He turns off the tub faucet on his way there. It’s just about full. 

Hannibal’s back is turned towards Will as the doctor takes his time laying out fresh bandages, ointment, sterile cleaning solutions. Will watches the peaks of Hannibal’s shoulder blades move fluidly but slowly. 

He’s been given privacy, Will realizes. How strange a notion, after all the emotional upheaval they’ve been through together. Criminal acts before the eyes of man, moral crimes before the eyes of God. That after all those things shared, seeing Will undress fully might still be considered _too far_ in Hannibal’s mind. A matter of propriety and etiquette. Will wants to laugh at the concept but it’s not worth the effort. 

Will thinks about the time Alana had arrived unexpectedly at his house and seen him half-dressed. It was years ago, but he still can recall just how much embarrassment he had felt then. 

He thinks about how different this feels.

Will wonders if this _should_ feel weird. It doesn’t. 

He pulls off his boxers and lays them on top of his dirty shirt. 

He dips his hand into the hot bath before climbing in. He sits up in the tub so that the bandages on his shoulder are out of the water. The heat feels sublime on his aching body. Shit, he needs this. He didn’t realize before how much. 

As if on cue, Hannibal turns to face him. He pulls up a chair and sits down beside the tub. “May I?”

Will nods in response. Hannibal begins to peel the old gauze away from Will’s shoulder and gets to work.

Will closes his eyes, ignores the pain, and tries to focus on the gentle currents of water flowing around his body instead.

Hannibal’s touch is delicate but precise. He makes a little _tsk_ noise and crumples his nose. “You should be cleaning this daily. You're still at risk of infection if you don't tend to it with more regularity.” 

Will lolls his head away towards the wall. Wet curls sticking to the back of his neck.“Spare me the lecture, Doctor.” 

Hannibal doesn’t answer.

Will opens his eyes. “Or, if you’re so eager, you can keep attending to it for me.” He honestly meant the remark to be laced with a little more spite. But in the end, it sounded more like a plea. 

Hannibal looks up from his work for a moment, expression unreadable. “If that is what you wish.”

Their interactions meld back into silence. 

The room is oppressively void of noise except for the soft ripples of water along the edge of the tub and the scratchy rustle of Hannibal’s starched shirt as he moves.

_God, the politeness is unbearable._ Will keeps his eyes shut tight. Anything would be better than this stunted pacificity. 

An outburst. A fight. Clawing at each other’s skin, reopening old scars. He could handle that.

A betrayal. A declaration of feelings. _Anything._

But the ice that has formed remains unbroken.

Hannibal finishes reapplying fresh bandages to Will’s cheek. 

And that’s that. 

He limps to the door and carefully pulls it shut on his way out. 

Will is left to soak alone with his thoughts.

  
  
  


* * *

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

* * *

  
  


The days begin to slide into one another. 

Hannibal cooks for the trio. Will suspects it may not be as extravagant as Hannibal would like it to be, but there’s certainly no complaints from anyone. After a week spent living off fast food and frozen dinners, everyone is overjoyed that Hannibal’s finally feeling well enough to cook again.

Chiyoh always joins them at the dinner table for meals. But is often doing her own thing in the periods of time thereafter. She seems to be glad to be out of that cramped motel room. She appears to prefer observing from afar. Not one for idle conversation. 

Or perhaps she’s just steering clear of this heavy cloud of tension that’s settled between Will and Hannibal. 

She hunts for game birds in the mornings and evenings. Keeps her rifle clean and well-maintained. In the afternoons she helps clear the garden so that they might put it to use. Forages for edible plants on the grounds in the meantime. Will discovers she’s quite the survivalist, though he’s not at all surprised by that. She teaches him how to identify poison mushrooms. Will is making a conscious effort to be kinder to her, but he’s yet to apologize.

Will tinkers with the boiler when his pain permits. Drags the garden tractor out of the shed and prepares it for when he can actually work on it. He helps get their satellite internet working so that they might have some connection to the outside world should they need it. He hasn’t yet gotten up the strength to fish the river, but he tells himself he will one day. Soon. 

Hannibal, despite his weakness, has been far from useless. Pushing himself further than he should. Putting the house together in working order. It’s massive and there’s been a lot to organize and clean. He also tunes the piano, replacing a few broken strings. He spends more time on his feet than is healthy. Will never realized just how busy Hannibal’s days were until now. Some days it’s hard to keep up. 

The pair still spend the mornings together. It’s become a routine. Will in the tub, Hannibal tending to him. Sometimes they talk. But more often than not, they just listen to each other breathe.


	6. Boiling Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful comments and kudos from the last chapter! <3 It keeps me writing!
> 
> Ugh, these two stubborn bastards need to deal with their feelings lol. I promise, that's coming soon. 
> 
> I'm trying to post this one before I get overwhelmed with work and school again, so proofing it was a little rushed. If I missed any errors feel free to let me know!
> 
> Take care, everyone! Stay safe and healthy out there.<3

* * *

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

* * *

_**VI. Boiling Point** _

> _14 Days After The Fall / 5 Days At The Cabin_

“Am I still the sacred cow?” Will toys with the surface of the water. His eyes look particularly blue this morning, soaking in the light reflecting off the bathtub. He can no longer abide the dead-end conversations they’ve been having. Nor the silence. Something has to give.

Hannibal glances over, lips pursed, and lets him continue on this tangent. 

“Or merely the sacrificial lamb?” Will tilts his chin upwards to allow the doctor access to his stitches. “Blindly waiting to be slaughtered. Blessedly in the shepherd’s good graces.” He cringes as the bandage is once again peeled away from his cheek. “At least, until he grows hungry.”

“What do you believe, Will?”

He raises an eyebrow and shrugs coyly. “Oh, I believe you’ve been a _very_ good shepherd.” 

Hannibal smiles at this. Nimble fingers still cleaning Will’s injuries. He stops what he’s doing for a moment. 

“And I believe you’ve outgrown this allegory of the lamb.” He takes his hand and lightly brushes a thumb along Will’s upper lip. He applies just enough upward pressure to reveal Will’s teeth. “No. You’ve evolved into something else. Something with avarice. And fangs fit for rending flesh from bone.”

He pulls his hand down and cradles Will’s chin. The look on his face is one of pure adoration; he’s proud of this clever boy beneath him. 

Will leans into Hannibal’s touch. And for some reason his mind conjures images of coming home to Molly every night. Relishing in the simple promise of gentle affection. The expectation that it would always be there. Warmth and touch and embraces in the dark. He misses that. 

And along comes the other thought, right on cue. How affectionate is Hannibal in a relationship? Physically, that is. He wonders what it was like for Alana. If it was satisfying, or if instead it left too much to be desired. If it was genuine, or just part of the careful construct: the person suit. 

Hannibal pulls his hand away and looks his companion in the eyes. “I see you as my equal, Will.”

_What?_

It drops a pit into Will’s stomach. Not the words alone. No. It’s the look on his face, the inflection with which he speaks. It’s more honest than anything he’s ever heard leave Hannibal’s mouth. It’s raw and laid bare. There’s that vulnerability again that he suspects very few people have ever seen in Hannibal and lived to tell the tale. 

So, naturally, Will feels the pressing need to combat it with every fibre of his being. Facing this with equal candor would be too heavy a burden to bear. 

He scoffs and leans forward, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them. The water ripples around him.

“I doubt you could ever see _anyone_ as your equal.” Will’s voice is a low rumble. “Not the _Great Red Dragon_ . Not me.” He pauses. When he finds his voice again, it comes out like a battlecry. “I don’t think you’re even capable of coming down off your throne long enough to _feel_ that strongly about _anyone_.”

He stands up in the tub, water cascading down from his body. 

Hannibal’s face turns to stone. His voice is flat. “And _surely_ you know me better than anyone. So it must be true.” He’s doing his damndest to maintain composure. But a slight flare of the nostrils is all Will needs to know that he’s struck a nerve. 

He grabs the towel from Hannibal’s outstretched hand and pulls the rough fabric around his body. 

“I have scars to remind me _exactly_ how you feel about me.” Will presses his own hand along his abdomen for emphasis.

“As do I. Lest we forget who began that particular deadly game.” Hannibal very nearly bares his wrists in return, but can only manage a slight tug on his sleeves. 

“Oh, yes, how unexpected. Placing the blame at my feet again. I hope it eases your conscience, Doctor.” Will dries his hair off feverishly, rubbing the towel hard against his scalp. Any harder and there might be enough friction to spark a fire. 

He grabs a fresh pair of underwear from the counter and steps into them.

Hannibal is staring at the rippling water in the bathtub, lips pressed together in a fine line. There’s that tired look again, the one that seems to occupy his features more often than not these days. He seems to become aware of the crack through which his feelings are spilling out and tries to patch the dam. He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs, pulling his countenance back into one of quiet indifference as he watches Will. 

Will hangs up the towel and grabs his clean clothes. He hastily pulls on a long-sleeve shirt. “I don’t-” He begins to speak but the words get caught in his throat.

“Want what, Will?”

“I don’t want to be in love with someone who has taken _everything_ from me.” 

Will presses the buttons on his shirt closed with much more force than is necessary, reaping some small pleasure from the hard _snap_ sound they make. He speaks with furious conviction. “You could have killed me.” He snaps another button. “You left me for dead once.” _Snap._ “And I’m not convinced it won’t happen again.” 

He avoids Hannibal’s unwavering gaze. 

“I don’t want _this_.” He gestures his hand to and fro in the air, illustrating their union. 

Will lets out a short, sickly burst of laughter. There’s no humor in his eyes. “ _But here I am_.” He shrugs and upends his palms in a gesture that resembles surrender. “Here I am.” He repeats it slowly. 

And there. He’s said it. As close to a confession as he’ll ever get under these circumstances. He regrets it the minute it leaves his lips. Not so much the words themselves, but the fact that he possesses these feelings at all. If his world were any semblance of normal, he would be back at home with his wife and step son. Not here, half-dressed, arguing with Baltimore’s most notorious serial killer like a scorned lover. 

Hannibal lets the statement hang in the air for a minute before answering. He folds his arms across his lap and humbly brings his hands together like a member of the clergy before a prayer. He’s patient, waiting to see if Will has anything else to add to the monologue. But after a minute passes, it’s clear that Will is done. So _very_ done. 

Hannibal looks away for a moment, carefully considering his next move. 

“I’ve never actually _tried_ to kill you.” He says it casually, coolly. Leaves the confession like a mote of dust slowly falling to the surface of the floor beneath them. It’s now just a simple fact dangling in the air between the two.

Will seethes, utterly exasperated with Hannibal’s blatant lies. The most _disgusting_ infidelity at this point in their relationship could only be dishonesty. His lips part open for a moment, as he decides which course of action would dissatisfy Hannibal the most: to speak or stay silent. To play along or refute the argument. He just wants to see Hannibal _writhe_ with frustration. 

But something stops Will in his tracks. A delicate feeling tugging at the animosity building within him.

Is that... the truth? Could Hannibal _actually_ mean that?

Will thinks about it, _really_ thinks. He analyzes each scenario, filters through a thousand memories. Sifts through past conversations, digs through every encounter they’ve had.

Of all the injuries thrust upon him, directly and indirectly, none were ever quite enough to send him reeling over the point of no return. Performed with forethought. Enough to provide a grand show of blood, either metaphorically or in earnest. To strike fear in an audience, to punish a betrayal, or to convey emotion that no words could ever justly describe. 

But there was always an out, of some sort. Was that intentional? 

Hannibal must have calculated the time it would take for someone to intervene, for assistance to arrive, for circumstance to change and rescue the situation.

Of all the perilous situations intentionally sent Will’s way, Hannibal knew Will could overcome the odds. Be it beast, or another killer. Illness or captivity. Hannibal _knew_ his patient, his student, his partner. He knew _his_ Will. Better than Will knew himself, even from the very beginning. 

It was as if he’d had past lifetimes to study Will. As if this wasn’t their first go-around. As if some primal, reincarnated part of Hannibal had failed to properly stir conviction in his soul mate the last few lives. And was finally tired of waiting. Tired to the point of a hungry desperation, his soul vowing that politeness and patience would have to go out the window this time around. 

Will finds himself over by the window now, hands pressed against the glass, watching the river flowing, flowing, flowing onwards to its destination. Little white caps bubbling tenaciously across the rocks and fallen tree limbs that impede the river’s course. The river appears to overcome every obstacle, regardless of magnitude. 

He keeps his gaze on the stream, speaking into the glass. His hot breath fogs up the window pane. “If you had actually been _trying_ to kill me, I would be dead.”

At first, there is silence between them. Then a quiet stirring.

“Yes,” comes Hannibal’s soft reply. Not a threat. No, Will had heard the icy edge of warning in Hannibal’s voice before, when harm was imminent. This held nothing but the warmth of the evening breeze: Plain. Unassuming. True. 

"That-” Will spat the words from his mouth. “That justifies _nothing_." 

And then it hits him. Falls over him and settles across his shoulders like a blanket. That same feverous wash he’d felt on the edge of the cliffs, wrapped in his mentor’s blood-soaked embrace. 

_Hannibal is in love with me._

Yes, the words had been tossed around his head before. Yes, he’d even realized it before, at least as a concept. With Bedelia providing the catalyst for that realization. But he’d wanted to toy with it then, try to use it to his advantage. Roll around in the bitter vengeance and revel in the semblance of control it gave him over someone who had taken so much control from him. Hannibal was the bad taste left in his mouth after years of unravelling, the reminder of his own darkness. That love was a sickly, twisted thing. A distant concept pushed to the recesses of his mind except when it came in handy. Just part of their _deadly game_. 

He wasn't even sure someone like Hannibal could really feel love. Not then, anyways. 

_But now?_

He was beginning to realize the depth of that adoration. How close it was to him now. How much more real and tangible. He could almost reach out and touch it. 

_‘But do you ache for him?’_

Fucking _Bedelia_. There were far too many people picking around his mind. 

He abruptly grabs his jacket from the hook on the wall and turns for the door. He spins on his heels for a second, realizing he still hasn’t put on any pants. He steps into them quickly and dips out of the room. 

Will considers leaving a brief parting token, like “I’m going out,” or “I’ll be back after a walk,” but decides against it. It’s pointless, irrelevant. Besides, he isn’t ready to feel like one half of an old married couple yet anyways, narrating his every move to his partner. 

He figures that Hannibal knows he’ll return, eventually. Where the hell else would he go. 

  
  


* * *

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

* * *

  
  


The Eastern fork of Wolf Creek branched away from the main watershed and meandered along lonely hilltops and down into deep gullies. The landscape created plenty of undisturbed areas to sit back and watch the world continue on without you. 

Will sits on the rocky bank, boots sinking into the wet earth. There’s a crisp chill in the evening air and the forest is far from silent. So much life.

He’s walked so far into the woods that he can’t be sure just how long he’s been gone. Hours, at least. The allure of returning for food or warmth has barely touched his consciousness. His cold fingers are clutching onto a pilfered bottle of wine, covertly taken from the cellar before he left. He’s actually surprised at the alcohol content. It’s flooding his system already. 

He struggles to push this morning’s conversation out of his mind, but Hannibal no doubt worms his way into Will’s thoughts regardless. Fucking persistent, as usual. 

He condemns the part of himself that indulges the temptations to think about the life he might share together with the Chesapeake Ripper. Instead, he tries to moor himself to the idea of returning to his old life.

There’s one last anchor that’s pulling him back to reality, back to a comfortable life in Virginia. 

And he was nestling himself in the _imago_ of those to which that anchor was attached. The little ready-made family he had slipped into. Molly and Walter. He wonders if they grieve him like a dead man. If they were struggling to get by without him. 

What was a more sullying thought was the notion that they didn’t actually need him. It was easier on the ego to assume they were rife with grief over his departure, whether they believed it to be due to a fatality or an abandonment. So much easier to assume his presence was a necessary element in their happiness. That he held a place in their minds which would lapse into a gnawing void in his absence. One that neither time nor distraction could easily abate.

Like the place Hannibal held in his own mind, a carefully prepared room in the palace of his memories. The type of attachment that would send a man sailing across the Atlantic in a self-assembled ship, in hot pursuit of the only thing that would fill that void. 

But that, _and he knew this unequivocally_ , would be a lie. 

He had never given himself fully to them. It can be easy to ignore that fact at first. And it was, for Molly. A broken man can be healed in time, they said. With love, they said. But it wasn’t her love that would mend the wreckage. Live with someone long enough and it becomes explicitly clear whether or not they will ever change.

Will knew it was a simple truth.

But the mind attempts to concoct notions of martyrdom before accepting a simple truth of any sort. 

_They would be safer without him in their lives._ Physically, mentally, emotionally. _He was doing them a favor._ Self-sacrifice for the family he had swaddled himself in like a comforting blanket. 

_Satisfying:_ that’s what it was to delve into these illusions. Self-indulgent fantasies of being needed by members of conventional society, polite society. People who held no hidden agendas, no great dissatisfactions with established social norms. No dark idealisms of grandeur, no irrepressible tendencies bordering on psychosis. 

It made one feel _normal_. A feeling that was rare in his life.

But humoring these ideas forced upon him a tinge of _guilt._ He himself knew the sting of abandonment. Knew it well enough to have some lingering remorse for thrusting that wound onto others. Others, who had done him no harm. Had meant him no ill will. 

And he was growing tired of guilt. 

_So._

_Very._

_Tired of it._

And that exhaustion was helping him to swim onwards to the truth. 

They didn’t need him. 

They’d be fine without him. 

He was a detached and evasive husband. _At best._

Real, raw honesty between them was as unwise as it was unlikely. 

He was a distant surrogate father. _At best._

Walter preferred the fading memory of a dead man to the physical reality of Will.

_At worst_ , he’d knowingly, and _willingly_ , put them in harm’s way in order to feverishly chase down the only monster that had ever filled his void. To provoke that monster, to stir up the passion whose glowing embers had waited patiently for three years to find that spark again. To do everything in his power to tempt his monster to _play the game_. 

_Molly and Walter._

Their names were like nostalgia. 

They tasted bittersweet on his tongue as he mouthed the words.

It wasn’t _just_ that they didn’t need him. 

It was something _more_.

They’d finally have 

_peace_

without him. 

* * *

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

* * *

  
  


Will Graham has a long history of waking up in unexpected places. But tonight is the first time in over a year that he’s been truly surprised by where he’s ended up.

He comes to in a small clearing near a deer blind. His body is sprawled out at an uncomfortable angle across the forest floor. Damp soil and leaves are clinging to his sweating skin. The scent of humid decay drills its way through his nostrils. The moon is high overhead and shining brightly against the black sky. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, nor how he got here.

There’s a slick trail of blood falling from his forehead, cascading down in ribbons. It hurts. God, it hurts. His vision is blurry at first but comes to focus quick enough to see the shiny dark smears on his fingertips. He feels along his body, instinctually checking for more injuries. But the only fresh pain he feels comes from the gash upon his head. 

Then why is there so much blood? Blood on his shirt, crusting to the folds and forming dark streaks. Blood beneath his fingernails, drying and congealing. There’s an assemblage of spatterings of it on his shoes. He tastes the coppery sweetness on his tongue. 

It’s not his. It can’t be. It’s not his blood. 

Oh, God, _it’s not his blood_.

His hands are shaking, tremors running through the lengths of his arms. He hasn’t felt this out of control for years. It was like those first terrible months with the FBI all over again: losing time, losing himself.

For a fleeting moment, he begins to wonder if the sickness is taking hold again. But then he remembers drinking alone in the woods, stupidly angry and wandering about in an ill temper. He recalls finishing off the bottle and dropping it into the river to watch it float away, before venturing even deeper into the thicket. 

He remembers stumbling upon a scene that turned his stomach. It’s coming back in flashes, vivid flashes. A young hunter toying with a fox caught in a trap. He remembers the boy removing its tail while it screeched in abject terror. Remembers the hunter not bothering to put the fox out of its misery once the cruel act was completed. The man had pinned the pretty tail to his vest, like a trophy. The fox was still screaming. 

Will can still hear that shrill cry, stretching on and on with no end. 

The rest of the evening is shrouded in his mind. He can see brief images of a fight that ensued, receiving that cut on his head in the struggle. He can feel the stone, gripped tight in his hand, strike the hunter’s skull. Again and again and again, until the man’s flesh was cold and stiff. Until his face was an unrecognizable pulp of bone and blood and brain.

It wasn’t self defense, that was clear now. To disfigure to that degree could have only come from a place of anger. It had felt like righteous anger in the moment, sure. But that justification was beginning to slip through his fingers. He couldn’t be sure of anything.

Pulled back to the present, Will scrambles about the forest floor seeking any remaining evidence. Hands searching through piles of dead leaves. The fox trap is empty. And the hunter’s body is gone. Bits of skull and flesh remain, but _the body is gone_. The holes in his memory leave him with no clue as to what he did with it. He silently curses himself for drinking. Strike that, he’s cursing himself out loud now. 

He thinks of running back to the cabin, telling Hannibal and pleading for help. But he banishes that thought from his mind almost as quickly as it comes. There’s something furtive about all of this; it’s almost embarrassing. The way it happened is far from the highly orchestrated slayings of his mentor. There’s no rhythm and ritual, no higher art form. It’s just messy and impulsive, like the sloppy work of a child. It makes him out to be much more of a liability than an equal partner. Despite how vehemently he had railed against being called Hannibal’s equal, he would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t fear losing that status. 

He doesn’t want Hannibal to find out. No, he _can’t_ let him find out. He’s got to do everything in his power to sink this like the shameful act that it is. 

He gets to work tracing his steps, covering his trail as best he can. Blurring his footprints in the soil and covering the tracks with leaf litter and debris.

He throws off his jacket and peels the shirt from his torso, ignoring the pain in his ribs. He plunges them deep into the cold river and tries to scrub the blood away. Next comes the pants, and then his boots. Some of the blood lifts away freely but there’s places that it's too late for any amount of scrubbing to rid the fabric of its deep russet stains. Shit. Maybe he’ll burn them. Though that would certainly garner unwanted attention from his housemates. 

The fear and loathing is still volatile. But a dark thought slips in. He’s a little impressed with himself, that even in a drunken state he was still able to overpower someone. The thought makes him want to laugh. This, _this_ , is what his simple pleasures are now? Taking pride in his own stubborn strength? How absolutely absurd his life has become.

He wrings out his pants and shirt, puts the wet clothing back on, and tries to get his bearings before venturing back towards the cabin. 

* * *

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

* * *

The trek back proved to be much further than he had expected. He’d followed the creek back to its source and traced that to the edge of their property. It was more than a mile from the spot he’d killed the hunter. Maybe even a few miles. The surreality of it all was making things unclear. 

He carefully surveys the outside of the stone chalet, the porch, the garden. The darkness of the night still shrouds the area but, as far as he can tell, there was no one else up. 

He undresses on the porch, stripping down and carrying his boots. He makes his way through the house with all the silent grace of a mouse. He digs through the cabinets in search of bleach. Having found his quarry he barricades himself in the main bathroom and begins filling the tub with hot water. 

  
  


* * *

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

* * *

The sound of the bathroom door creaking open is enough to make him jump out of his skin. He pulls the rag from his face and looks towards the door. 

“Will?” Hannibal’s hand is on the doorknob. 

“I thought I locked that,” Will mumbles from the bathtub. The slithery tendrils of anxiety creep across his mind. 

“It was open, I assure you.” He stands in the doorway, inhaling the scent of blood. He seems resolute on not leaving but asks anyway. “Do you want me to leave?”

Half of Will’s mind is screaming _yes, yes,_ _yes_. _Please for the love of God leave and never find out what I’ve done in the dark._

But his tongue betrays him. “No. Just- just shut the door.” 

Hannibal obliges and slowly makes his way to the tub. His eyes dart to and fro across the room, no doubt taking catalogue of everything. He’s putting together the pieces in his mind. Will can practically hear the cogs turning. It’s too late to send him away. He _knows._

The water in the tub is polluted with swirls of crimson and swathes of pink. Will’s dirty clothes and shoes lie in a bucket of bleach. The acrid scent of cleaner is mingling with the metallic smell of blood. 

Will can’t bring himself to look away from the murky liquid beneath him. He doesn’t want to meet anyone’s gaze in this state. He wants to hide away from the world and live out the rest of the days in the shadows. His knees shake, sending vibrations through the water. 

As Hannibal leans over the tub, Will sinks down into the warm water and tilts his head towards the wall. 

“My darling boy, you never have to hide from me.” 

The way the words make him feel is almost unbearable. Like a fragile, reckless child who can’t help but be pitied by his mentor. He knows the words were meant as comfort but there is no solace to be found here.

“Aren’t you concerned that I’ve undone all your careful planning with my mistakes?”

“Plans can be adjusted to fit the situation’s needs. You are the piece that has always been difficult to predict.”

“The wrench in your plans.”

“Not so much the wrench as the catalyst. A part of the equation that was absent from my existence. I am happy to adapt as you evolve, and embrace each new transformation.”

The tenseness in Will’s shoulders loosens. It’s hard to throw yourself into the idea of rejection when there’s someone who accepts you so fully. 

But he thinks about the other variables, the other witnesses who had roles to play.

“What about Chiyoh?” Will thinks of her abhorrence of killing, despite how much of it she’s been involved with in their presence. 

“She’s a smart girl. She will find out. And there’s nothing I can do to dissuade her probing into the matter if she sees fit to do so. But she won’t speak of this outside our circle. Her oath to watch over myself is one she won’t break.”

“That promise is to you, it doesn’t extend to me.” He blinks away the water trickling down from his hair. 

“It does, by proxy, Will. Our lives are far from separate. As entangled as you and I are, there’s no course of action against one of us that won’t affect the other.”

Will muses on this, and exhales softly. His eyes flick over to Hannibal. “Sit down, please. I can see your leg shaking.” 

Hannibal looks, for once, a little surprised. But it’s hard to tell if it’s because of Will’s perception or at the sincerity of his concern. He pulls up the little white chair and eases himself into it with a muffled groan. 

“You see right through me.” There’s a smile on his face. A real smile, not the tiny stunted ones he usually allows himself. 

It’s odd, the regularity with which they find themselves sharing this space in the bathroom, having conversations. As if this has become the surrogate for their psychiatry office. 

“You know what I love about dogs?” Will interjects. 

“A great many things, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” he laughs. “But there’s one thing I really envy them for. They’re shameless. Completely shameless. They bare themselves for the world and don’t think twice about it. They’ll tend to their needs regardless of the company. They’ll kill a squirrel, savagely. Then go on playing and bouncing around like nothing happened. And then they’ll wonder why you’re scolding them for it.” 

He brushes the wet hair from his face. “But they forget the scolding just as cheerily. They will do the whole thing over again the next chance they get.” 

He pauses, a bit of reflective laughter falling from his mouth. “It’s graceless. But sometimes I want that. I wish life could be that transparent.”

“It can be.” Hannibal answers plainly.

“You know it’s not that simple. We _think_ too much.”

“No.” Hannibal’s voice is soft. “Simplicity may always evade us in this life. But I would be there to shoulder those burdens with you.” 

Will finally looks up from the water and suddenly he finds a lump in his throat at the sight of the man before him. Hannibal’s glistening eyes really do bare all. He’s so fucking obvious. Wearing his heart on his sleeves around Will.

Will’s really kicking himself in the ass for all the time he spent unaware. God, why did he never see the depth of this before? It leaves him breathless and at a loss for words.

Hannibal fills the silence. “Are you ready to tell me what happened?” 

From the tone in his voice, Will knows he could say no. He could refuse and Hannibal would accept that, waiting patiently until he was ready. And that’s really what convinces Will to yield the truth to his partner.

Will recounts what he remembers. Somehow speaking it aloud makes it so much more real, and, as a consequence, so much more unsettling. But he manages to get through it, sanity intact. He doesn’t mention the drinking. 

Hannibal asks only the necessary questions, but thankfully refrains from poking at the wound too deeply yet. It’s probably taking all his effort to keep himself from asking those deeper queries, the ones he lusts after like a hungry predator. But he’s nothing if not patient and tactful.

He cleans the gash on Will’s head. He states the likelihood that Will’s sustained a minor concussion, after checking his pupil dilation. The split skin itself is not deep enough to need stitches, though a protruding lump is already forming around it. 

“Will you be alright to finish cleaning up by yourself?” 

“Yeah, I’m going to get out. I can feel myself turning into a prune.” He pulls the plug on the tub drain and watches the water swirl away. “Where are you going?”

“Damage control.” He smirks, raising a hand at Will’s protests. “Stay. You’ll be of no use to me until your mind settles.” 

“You shouldn’t be out there alone. You’re still healing.” 

“Afraid that I might trip and fall in the woods? After all that we’ve survived?” He smiles, teeth gleaming. 

“I think God might enjoy the irony.”

At this remark, Hannibal lets a sincere laugh escape. It’s infectious, and paints a smile on Will’s face. 

Hannibal turns to leave but pauses for a moment. “Oh- Will? _Do_ try to stay out of the liquor cabinet until I return.” He shoots a playful wink in his partner’s direction before exiting the room.

Will clicks his tongue, not really surprised. He had specifically left that detail out of his recounting of events. 

But having a companion this perceptive meant that nothing was secret for long. 

He thinks he might just be okay with that fact.

* * *


	7. Scaling the Levee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being patient. To everyone who has left a comment, given kudos, or bookmarked this, you have my eternal gratitude and affection <3 Really, though, it's what inspires me. 
> 
> I've been trying to take the time to improve my writing style and hopefully have gotten somewhere with it this time around. But I'm also running on very little sleep so feel free to let me know if I've made any mistakes. Thanks!

* * *

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\---

Sunrise crests over the horizon, casting a rosy tint across the property. Chiyoh sits on the railing of the attic balcony, poised and rather feline in the way she holds herself: confident in her balance. Her rifle is still slung loosely around one shoulder. She is rarely seen without it. It’s a facet of her being. She’s holding a pair of binoculars in one hand, her thin fingers tracing absently over the dials. From this spot, she can see the tops of all the trees surrounding their meadow and the shadowy dips between them where the foot trails snake through the forest. She can see the leaves swaying as something in the underbrush moves them. She can see as flocks of birds burst forth from the branches when something startles them. 

Will approaches her from behind, moving his taut muscles as delicately as possible. Noticing his approach, she fluidly swings the rifle to her other shoulder, away from the side he is on. It’s a gesture of mistrust that is not lost on Will.

She turns her head towards him, and surveys his appearance. Her eyes search every inch of him, a process which leaves Will feeling exposed. He was once the most observant person in the room, but now he’s living in a house full of highly perceptive individuals. This still unsettles him at his core, but for someone who prefers not having to explain himself to others, the notion of already being _seen_ is beginning to comfort him.

“You’ve made him clean up after you.” Her voice is steady as she watches the timberland below. 

“Does anyone really _make_ Hannibal do anything?”

She considers this. “There is a very short list of people who have sway over him. You’re at the top of it.”

“Above yourself?”

“Above myself.” She watches as a hawk breaks through the foliage of a distant conifer. “But you already know this. You just wanted it confirmed.”

He smiles grimly and changes the subject. “How are you handling all of this?”

“Don’t.” She raises a gloved hand swiftly into the air. “Don’t ask unless you truly care to know.”

He withdraws the words forming on his lips. He’s not sure if his concern is genuine. There’s a sort of fondness beginning to form at the sight of her, but he can’t be sure that it’s not simply due to familiarity. He shifts his body and comes to lean against the railing, a short distance from Chiyoh. Her dark eyes flit over to him. 

“I think-” He stumbles over his thoughts, trying to pull together the things he’s been wanting to say for the past few days. “I believe it’s fair to say that I’ve been less than appreciative. To you. For what you’ve done.”

She looks the slightest bit surprised but remains aloof. 

“I’m not congenial. Or easy to share space with. I get that. And you, well you’re not-” He stops himself. This apology was about to go in a different direction. 

She raises an eyebrow and lets him gather his thoughts. 

“Look. I am actually attempting to apologize.” He expects an answer but does not get one. “What I’m trying to say is that it would be better if we both could get along.” 

“It’s easier, you mean. If we play house. And you are concerned with how much I know.” 

“Yes.”

“Better to have your friends know your secrets than your enemies.”

He nods in solemn agreement. “Yes.”

“I am not your enemy, Will Graham.” Her eyes meet his before turning back to the forest. “Unless you give me reason to be.”

He stays silent and thinks of the fall. He knows exactly the sort of actions that would give her reason. Her loyalty to Hannibal will always supersede any concern she has for Will. 

She studies his face. “I know what you want to ask and I will give you your answer. Leaving you to die on that beach would have been the same as letting Hannibal die. I helped you despite what you did because it was what Hannibal wanted.” 

She pauses and looks away. “But there’s another reason. I may not have walked the same path as you, but I’ve been travelling parallel to it for much longer. I can understand why you made the decision to take both your lives.”

His stomach turns as his mind fills with unwelcome memories. He thinks of his arm around Hannibal’s neck, remembers the weightless feeling and the scent of brine.

“Because I had once given it thought myself.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Killing him.”

He brings his eyes up to meet hers in a sober moment of recognition.

“And if I can forgive you, then I can forgive myself. That’s what I am trying to do,” she finishes.

The air that flows between them is heavy and thick with the scent of decaying leaves. It settles around them as they both mull in their own thoughts.

Will finally finds his voice. “It’s not… something I am going to try a second time.” 

“I know. I no longer fear that from you. If I sensed you would, I wouldn’t hesitate-”

“To shoot me again?” He scratches his shoulder where the scar remains, and somewhere in his subconscious there’s a ghostly ache.

“Yes,” she confirms. There’s no hint of remorse in her tone, though it's equally absent of malice.

Will is not surprised by this in the least. 

“I’m constantly reminded of the consequences of my actions,” he begins again. “Every time I look at him. His frailty. I want to be angry at him still, but it’s getting harder to feel that way. Looking back, I think I’ve always been more angry at myself.” 

“Being consumed by anger helps no one, least of all yourself.” She watches him, curious if he’s really listening or if he’s simply using her as a backdrop while he sorts through his own feelings. 

Will runs a hand across his face and drags it slowly down his chin. He loses himself in his thoughts and lets out a low laugh. 

“After everything he’s done, I’m the one stuck feeling guilty,” he remarks.

“The depth of his affections can make you forget every transgression,” she replies. The skin around her eyes creases as she speaks. In Chiyoh, Will realizes he has found unexpected solidarity, someone who understands this part of his life. 

“Don’t assume he is without regrets,” she continues. “He can fool you into believing his maturity transcends your own. But he’s impetuous, like a small child. Greedy for affection and selfish with his playmates, throwing fits if something is taken from him.”

Will scoffs and lets a tight smile form on his lips. He likes this analogy. “His tantrums come with a body count.” 

“As do yours,” she sighs out absently, her head lilting towards the forest.

He cringes and ignores the comment. It was much more fun to poke at someone else’s flaws than his own. 

“How does one love him, then?”

“Carefully,” she answers.

“The rest of the world would think us insane to feel the way we do,” Will muses, assuming the camaraderie is not one-sided.

“Then it’s good that we have each other to remind us we are not,” she reflects. She keeps her tone non-committal and her expression unreadable. It’s a rare kernel of sentimentality coming from her. “To love him and keep our sanity intact is to reject the rest of the world.”

He thinks about her words, as a companionable silence settles between them. They both watch as a small, lithe deer passes through the clearing. 

“He will give you everything you want,” Chiyoh states. “Even the things you don’t yet know you want. If you allow yourself to have it.”

“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” he asserts, raising an eyebrow.

“No.” She almost smiles. Almost. “That is where we differ. I won’t allow myself to have it.”

“Won’t?”

“Can’t.” 

There’s something tragic and nostalgic about her expression. It leaves more questions than answers, but Will decides that this isn’t the time to be asking. 

She lifts her chin and turns back to him. “But you can. And you will, given time. The pair of you are cut from the same cloth.”

He laughs. “Why is it that everyone except me seems to know exactly where my life is headed?”

“Perhaps because they do.” She gives him a brief smile, something bordering on teasing. It’s the closest she’s come to joking with him.

The conversation leaves him with the feeling that he’s finally able to breathe again, like coming up for air after diving underwater. There’s something budding beneath what was once purely civility between the two of them. Friendship, real honest-to-God friendship, has been a rare occurrence in Will’s life. He wonders if that’s what their relationship is headed towards.

With Hannibal, it’s different. It’s a partnership, all-consuming and ever-evolving. They trade barbs and philosophical musings while peeling away the layers of walls both have built up over the years. It’s devotion, and passion (Will cringes at the word but he knows it's an apt description.) It’s a connection like something he’s never felt before with anyone else. 

But one would not use the term friendship to describe it.

He feels that with Chiyoh he might actually have the opportunity to build something else of value. It’s a strange, but comforting, thought. And, like everything else these days, filled with mixed feelings. 

Chiyoh stirs from her perch and gathers her gear. She checks her watch and a pensive look washes over her face.

“What is it?”

“I’m going in after him.” She scans the horizon. “He asked that I wait. He wanted a few hours to himself first,” she explains. 

Chiyoh turns towards the balcony door but stops abruptly when she notices Will is on her heels. 

“You should stay here,” she states. 

Will looks unconvinced and apprehensive.

“It’s best if one of us stays,” she insists.

He makes no indication that he agrees. 

“Will. I am in better condition to help him,” she continues, maintaining her stance. “You’re still weak.” 

“I just killed a man and you’re going to tell me I’m too weak?” Will quips, realizing too late how menacing the statement may have come off as. 

She lets out a groan, sounding exasperated instead of threatened. “Yes, and did you stop to think that perhaps that’s the reason you should stay? If he wanted your help, he would have asked.” 

Will opens his mouth to protest but stops. He knows that being offended is unjustified, despite what his feelings are telling him. 

She ducks into the house and disappears down the stairs. Will remains on the porch so that he can watch as she walks across the yard and into the woods.

“Guess I’ll hold down the fort,” he mutters to himself, leaning his elbows onto the railing and basking in the morning sun.

  
  


\---

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\---

The way the light filters down through the canopy of golden leaves softens Hannibal’s eyes to a bright amber. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, loosening it as he regains his footing above the fresh grave, shovel in hand. His sleeves are rolled up above the elbow and his exposed skin is covered in wet earth, little crumbles of dirt clinging to the hairs of his forearms. 

Definitively disposing of bodies in this manner is something he hasn’t had to deal with in such a long time. It’s tedious work and so very unceremonious. It lacks the theatrical flair he’s fond of. If he’s being honest, it feels nearer to crime than any of the typical methodologies he’s grown accustomed to. He does at least find some small pleasure in the fact that a portion of the meat was salvageable. 

He thinks of the intricate works of renaissance artists like Barocci and Botticelli, hanging in the Uffizi, and recalls how much time and effort went into the careful preparation of his own formative kills in Florence. His own staging of _La Primavera_ had incurred countless hours of research and drafting well before victim selection even came into play. 

Hannibal was nothing if not thorough, even in his youth.

Will, on the other hand, has a long way to go. 

Still, it had felt like a sin to disassemble the work of his student, his partner. It felt like trespassing on the sacred grounds of Will’s innermost self and then proceeding to steal the tapestries from the walls there. 

He recalls the scene he had discovered hours before. It wasn’t terribly hard to find, being a short distance from where Will had said he’d awoken. The panic and residual effects of alcohol would likely have contributed to Will not having stumbled upon the scene himself. It was a little disappointing knowing Will would never get to see this with his own -sober- eyes. 

There was, beneath the haze of drunkenness and reckless abandon, the seeds of creative inspiration. Hannibal could see that. The poacher’s body was stuffed into the hollow of a decaying oak tree, a brutish process which (much to Hannibal’s dismay) had bruised and damaged the internal organs. A crown of water hemlock was woven together and placed delicately on the victim’s head, with it’s clusters of tiny white flowers draping down like a bridal veil obscuring the facial disfigurement. The arms were pinned above the man’s head, bound in place by a braided rope of hemlock garnished with the disembodied tail of a gray fox. 

Under different circumstances, Hannibal would have gladly indulged in vain desires of recognition and artistry. He would have left the body on display. Perhaps even relished in the act of building upon his student’s designs. But the precariousness of their current situation dictated a delicate hand. He had to err on the side of caution. They were all already standing on the precipice of losing their freedom, tip-toeing the edge. All that was needed was a good push. 

And that simply could _not_ be allowed to happen. 

To say that the current incarnation of his relationship with Will was hard won would be a gross understatement. All of this was the culmination of years of dedicated effort.

He had Will. He had his freedom. Even Chiyoh had reentered his life. 

_Family._ The word drifted up and out of the darkest trenches of his mind and came to rest in the glorious morning light. 

_His family._ The instant the feeling nestled itself into the folds of his heart, he knew he wanted to protect it fiercely. 

Hannibal stands over the shallow grave. Losing himself in his thoughts had given him the opportunity to regain a little energy. He stretches his arms and breathes deeply. Back to work. 

He retrieves the white pail he had brought into the forest with him. He pulls a pair of gloves out of his pocket and slides them on before prying off the lid of the bucket. He hauls the container to the edge of the grave and begins pouring it in, distributing the thin white flakes of lye all across the body. Satisfied with the evenness of the coverage, he measures out the proper proportion of water and begins adding it to the pit.

Lye can be used as a tenderizer for various dishes in the kitchen, or even as a means to clear a clog in a drain. In this case, it would act as a catalyst to cause alkaline hydrolysis. In short, lye ensured the poacher’s body would decay rapidly and, in a manner of a few weeks, be reduced to nothing more than nutrients in the soil. Nutrients that would go on to feed the forest, and the flora and fauna that dwelled within.

Though not extravagant, the end was fitting: death begetting new life. He’s certain Will can appreciate the delightful cyclicity of it all. He’d be lying if he denied being a little excited to tell him this. 

The lye needed an insulated, anaerobic environment to do its work. Hannibal grabs the shovel from its resting place against the tree and digs the tip of it into the pile of dirt. He hesitates, as he feels the weight of it. The thought of burying the corpse by himself is daunting. His shoulders are already aching from his efforts thus far. If his concept of time is correct (and it usually is) Chiyoh would be arriving shortly. Her help was necessary at this point.

He had delayed her arrival for two reasons. Mostly, he had wanted the chance to take it all in for himself, alone and uninterrupted. He wanted ample time to linger and recreate the act in his mind, picturing what had transpired between Will and the hunter, cataloguing away the memories.

Second, he had not wanted her to be present to view the scene as Will had left it. It didn’t fit very well with the story of self defense that Hannibal had given her. Chiyoh’s morality had been chipped away at but her heart was still persistently fighting the acceptance of killing. 

Hannibal knows that if there is too much overt brutality too quickly, especially in this uncertain time, it will drive her away. And he isn’t quite ready to say goodbye to his old friend yet. The day will arrive eventually that it all becomes too much for her. 

But he hopes that day is still a long way off. 

\---

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\---

By the time Chiyoh and Hannibal return, it's clear into the afternoon. The sun hangs high above the stone chateau, casting long dark shadows along the grounds. They put away the shovels and buckets. They wash their muddied hands in the kitchen sink, dark water swirling around the drain. Hannibal slips something into the fridge from a small cooler. Chiyoh turns a blind eye and makes the decision to feign illness when dinner is offered to her. They find Will passed out on the couch in the living room, mouth open and sleeping like a baby. They leave him be.

Chiyoh returns to her own room to clean up and retreats into her en-suite bathroom, the only one in the house with a working shower. Hannibal resists the urge to watch Will for a little while longer, and makes his way down the hall and into his own room to retrieve fresh clothes. 

Will honestly didn’t intend to fall asleep, but exhaustion has a way of overtaking him unexpectedly. He awakes feeling lighter than he has in weeks, maybe even years if he’s being honest with himself. Something has calmed within himself, a storm quieted. He doesn’t want to attribute that feeling to the bloodshed, but it's hard not to think that it might have a role to play. Or perhaps it's that he’s finally coming to terms with who he is, and the killing was just the needle that caused the bubble to burst. Either way, he elects to banish those quandaries to the back of his mind for now.

The late afternoon glow paints the living room in gold and amber. The interior lights of the house are dim and the air is cool. For the first time since he’s arrived here, he’s actually feeling at ease. He’s not used to feeling at ease about anything.

He lifts himself up off of the couch, a depression left in the plush cushions where he slept. He pads down the dark hall, bare feet on wood floors. Chiyoh’s door is shut, and there’s light spilling out from beneath it. He turns to see that the other source of light is coming from the main bathroom, the door to which is slightly ajar, leaving just enough space to see inside.

Will peers through the doorway. Hannibal is inside at the sink, his back towards the door. 

He takes the opportunity to observe his companion. He isn’t sure if Hannibal is aware that he’s watching, but what does it matter at this point? Shame has almost entirely gone out the window by now. Right? 

Hannibal peels off the muddied shirt, his sore shoulders moving in unnaturally rigid motions. He places the shirt neatly on the edge of the vanity, before getting to work on his belt. His bare back is now facing Will.

The blotchy red tendrils of sores wrap around from Hannibal’s abdomen to his lower back. There’s still a bandage over the entry wound of the Dragon’s bullet, on his lower back. It’s in a location that, even for someone with excellent flexibility, would be hard to tend to. Will feels a pang of guilt thinking about how meticulous Hannibal has been in tending Will’s injuries, all the while without even asking for any help with his own. Will wonders if he should have offered. He wonders if Hannibal considers it rude that Will has been selfish in this matter, or if he actually just prizes Will’s well-being over his own. 

Will’s eyes trail upwards to the circle of scarred flesh where the Verger brand now adorns the space between Hannibal’s shoulders. Something about the depressions there makes him want to reach out and trace his fingers along all the grooves of his mentor’s skin. 

Will tells himself he’s not one to often be possessed by passing fancies or physical urges, but something makes him step forwards. He grabs the cold handle of the door, his fingers itching for something warmer, softer, itching for something with a pulse that matched his own. He watches as Hannibal starts the water for the bath.

There’s a rush of heat rising in his belly and traveling through his skin. It’s a feeling which he is adamantly refusing to put a name to. 

Hannibal’s body is lean and muscular, curves blossoming into rigid lines. Prison life had gifted him with a little extra flesh around the belly, but it doesn’t detract from the natural elegance in his form. Steam rises up from the tub as Hannibal folds his slacks and places them on the chair beside the tub. 

Will leans forward just a hair, almost subconsciously. But the motion is enough to push the door open wider than he expected to. There’s a god-awfully loud creak that comes from the protesting hinges of the door. 

Hannibal notices ( _of course he does, Will thinks_ ) and cocks his head back to survey. Hannibal is fast, but Will’s embarrassment makes him much faster, forcing him to retreat back down the dark hall with as much haste as he can possibly muster. 

_Nope. Nope. Nope._

Whatever demon of lust had briefly possessed him was no match for Will’s hellish insecurity. He finds himself back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, nursing a sudden chill and trying to remember just how many of the scars on Hannibal’s body were the result of their relationship.

  
  


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\---

  
  


Preparations for dinner had run late into the evening, with Hannibal cooking and Will playing sous chef in a way that reminded him of a time in their lives that now felt like a distant dream. The food was a success, as usual, though the meat was not what they were used to having over the past weeks.

The taste was acutely familiar.

Chiyoh had excused herself early, though no one was really surprised at that.

Will stokes the glowing embers in the grand fireplace before returning to his seat on the couch. The night folds in upon the estate, inky blackness peering in from all the windows. 

“Why am I not surprised by the fact that you have a stockpile of lye on hand,” Will ponders while accepting a glass of wine from Hannibal.

“When you are in my line of work, preparation is what keeps you alive,” Hannibal answers, filling his own glass before sitting down next to his companion. 

Will scoffs. “Your line of work,” he repeats.

“I suppose I should say _ours_.” 

“I suppose you should,” Will muses, listening to the hum of the crickets and cicadas outside.

He watches his mentor for a moment. There’s a tempered look of mirth on Hannibal’s face.

* * *


	8. In Your Orbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal discuss other serial killers and the notion of family over breakfast, and reveal details about their respective childhoods. An unexpected injury results in the culmination of some unresolved feelings.
> 
> (Possible trigger warning for the -brief- discussion of real serial killers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's to hoping you all had a lovely holiday, or at the very least managed to get through it with your sanity intact. 
> 
> A huge THANK YOU to everyone who has read this fic, left a comment, given kudos, or bookmarked it. You are all wonderful and have my undying gratitude. Especially those of you who have continued to leave such nice comments, I'd give my soul to you if it wasn't already sold. 
> 
> Some of this (and probably the next chapter) will feel a bit more slice of life / domestic fluff than the previous ones. I have so many ideas for this and I'm trying to fit most of them in. But I promise, a return to a linear plot arc will happen. I have an ending in mind for this. 
> 
> As always, let me know your thoughts! I love hearing from you. I read each and every comment and cherish them all! (I'm absolutely shit at responding though, so please forgive me)
> 
> Without further ado....

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The three of them have settled into a rhythm that now seems as natural as breathing. The days blur together, hallmarked by scattered revelations and pleasant interludes of domesticity. The cadence of their lives was feeling so very much like a glowing oil lamp, its light fading in and out of brightness in the mountain wind.

The days slide into weeks, weeks creeping months. It's easy to lose track of the time, with no clear delineating factor like a 9 to 5 work week, or social incursions. There was no more fervent pining for the days off, days alone, for the weekends, nor the holidays. They were bound to no societal standards here, and beholden to no gods but their own.

They revolved around each other like planets in orbit, habituating themselves to their own personal atmosphere. A cannibal, a soldier, a fisherman. A family brought together under strange circumstances, held together by terms even stranger still.

Their wounds from the fall were healing, and with each passing day less care was needed. Limbs were regaining movement, muscles loosening and flexibility increasing. Scabs peeled away to reveal the soft pinkness of fresh scars. Scars that were furtively admired in the fading light of the afternoon.

The tentacles of fear were peeling away as well. The apprehension of being found was dissipating. They were beginning to feel at ease in their domain. All three of them were acutely aware of how dangerous it was to slip into complacency, to take their freedom for granted. But, at the same time, it was incredibly easy to embrace the contentment that accompanied them in this state.

They were among people who accepted them for what they were: demons and all. To be comfortable among others was a feeling that often evaded them in past lives. Once found, it was a nearly unconscious descent into sincerity, into naked candor. They began to let their guards fall away, stepped out of the carefully crafted people suits.

They know they won’t be able to stay here, like this, permanently, and that plans must eventually be laid for the next leg of their journey. But it’s a topic the trio has delicately danced around, in light of the unexpected peace they’ve found themselves immersed in.

To live without pretense, to exist without deception, was too sweet a victory to not allow themselves to relish in, at least a little.

The weather has long since broken. Brisk mornings gave way to sun soaked days and foggy evenings. The climate allowed for a veritable bounty of things to be grown, once the garden had been cleaned up. Will enjoyed the toil, the hard work in the hot sun, the feel of rough, knotted vines between his fingers. Sweat pouring down his shoulders, pooling in the divets of his collarbone.

The stubble on his face has grown out to something more aptly described as a beard, partly out of contented neglect. It hides the scar from Dollarhyde better that way. The stitches have been removed.

Hannibal’s hair has grown out enough that his bangs cascade down and frame his face, a bit of silver stubble has filled in the sharp contours of his cheeks. Will tells him that it makes him look older. What he neglects to tell him is that he actually likes it.

Little has changed about Chiyoh, and her consistency is grounding. But her presence is less tense, and her smiles come easier.

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The status of their healing injuries necessitated a change in their routines together. No more wound care, but Hannibal and Will do still spend their mornings together.

Hannibal is often up by daybreak. He cooks and makes coffee. And on the days that Will hasn’t been plagued by nightmares, he helps. The dreams are still vivid, but the horror shows are frequenting him less and less.

Most days, their conversations fall from the lofty peaks of intricate metaphors and cutting remarks, and settle into something that more closely mirrors the simple honesty with which their initial attempts at friendship began.

Over the past week, they’ve taken to discussing high profile cases over morning coffee. Will had developed an interest in Hannibal’s opinion of other infamous killers, and what began as an idle curiosity has now become routine.

“Charles Manson,” Will asks, accepting the fresh cup of coffee from his mentor. Steam rises up, fogging up his glasses. He’s still getting used to having them again. He pulls them off and sets them on the counter. They had appeared a week ago on his bedside table, a new pair in an expensive-looking case. A note had been attached. How Hannibal had known his exact prescription was still a mystery, as was the question of how long he had them in his possession. Will has learned to accept the unknowns.

“A talkative sham,” Hannibal answers, his voice laced with a noticeable amount of revulsion. He takes a seat beside Will at the kitchen table.

“Whose work is merely a derivative of those who came before him,” he continues. “But I do find his influence intriguing, albeit disappointing due to his methodology.”

“He’s been called a master manipulator,” Will says nonchalantly, resting his elbows on the table.

“I think you and I are both aware that is painfully far from the truth. He used drugs to do much of his dirty work, and not in a creative way either.”

“You’re not above using drugs,” Will points out.

“As a tool, never the driving force.”

Will lets his skepticism show, crossing his arms over his chest. “I suppose we’re all biased about our own work, Doctor.”

“How right you are.” Hannibal looks contemplative, fingers curled around his coffee mug. “Though I still detest being compared to Manson.”

Will smiles, imagining Hannibal in a jail cell next to Charles Manson. It would have been torture. Glorious torture.

“It’s ironic that the man most famously associated with serial killings has, himself, never spilled a drop of blood,” Will remarks after a pause.

“Ironic, but not surprising,” Hannibal adds. “The American public wasn’t willing to accept that their all-star youths were capable of such violence of their own accord. They needed a villain to crucify.”

Hannibal glances over at his silent companion who is stalwartly avoiding any eye contact. “Not unlike yourself,” he begins. “You once needed a villain as well.”

“Did I?” Will asks absently and takes a particularly long sip of coffee. “I was never very good at playing the part of the hero. Example A,” he announces, gesturing to Hannibal. “Here I am, sleeping with the enemy.”

Hannibal looks pleased. Too pleased. Will nearly chokes on his coffee, realizing the implications of his own choice of words.

“What about Dahmer?” Will asks abruptly, stopping the discussion from derailing further.

“Jeffrey Dahmer. Intelligent, capable, self aware. Troubled, though not entirely uninspired. I can appreciate the symbolism of eating a lover’s heart,” Hannibal answers, his voice melding into a sonnet of pleasure on that last comment.

“No doubt,” Will scoffs. He has to suppress an eye roll.

“I would have liked to have been his psychiatrist while he was in his youth,” the doctor adds.

“Of course you would have,” Will answers. He can’t help but grin. His mentor is terribly predictable in this arena.

Hannibal’s tone shifts. “Although I can’t personally condone the numerous acts of sexual assault, particularly on adolescents. It’s a selfish and vile exploitation. Most discourteous.”

“Another dragon we might have slain?”

“If time and opportunity afforded, certainly,” Hannibal assures. He turns to face Will. “Would you have liked that?”

“I think I would have,” the empath laughs dryly. “Vigilante justice, killers with a conscience.”

“If that’s how you would like to see it.” Hannibal presses the coffee cup to his lips briefly, maroon eyes lost in thought. “But killing does not preclude one from having a conscience, or affection for that matter. Take yourself for example. Has it robbed you of emotion?”

“Quite the opposite, really,” Will replies, a little too quickly.

Hannibal smiles and continues his line of query. “Do you still _feel_?”

“Excessively,” he admits with a grumble.

Hannibal nods, satisfied. “As do I.”

“Love, life, and death, inextricably intertwined?” Will offers.

“Precisely.”

They settle into a comfortable silence, admiring the way the forenoon sun paints the kitchen in crimson and gold.

Chiyoh enters and the pair acknowledge her presence with the usual pleasantries. Hannibal’s ritualistic etiquette has rubbed off on Will, and he finds himself just as likely to bid her a good morning. She’s still wearing her long gray peacoat, wrapped tight in it like a security blanket. She’s clad in that same jacket every morning and refuses to shed it until the afternoon sun makes any excess clothing simply unbearable.

Hannibal hands her a mug and asks her about her plans for the day in his native tongue. They often speak to each other in Japanese or Lithuanian. Will isn’t bothered by it. If anything, he finds the rhythmic melody of their melding voices to be calming, grounding. He’s certain they aren’t doing it out of secrecy or an attempt to alienate him.

He knows because he can relate. He recalls his few trips back to his father’s home in Loreauville or the phone calls he used to receive from former colleagues in New Orleans. How comforting it was to be wrapped up in the familiarity of Cajun French, to hear Haitian Creole and Kouri-Vini being spoken on the streets, to trade colloquialisms and cultural phrases without getting odd looks.

“Was your father an alcoholic?” Hannibal’s abrupt line of questioning breaks Will out of his thoughts.

Will immediately puts his mug down with a strident clank and stares incredulously at his companion. Chiyoh uses the opportunity to make a hasty exit, and silently slips out the back door.

“Was _yours_?” he hisses back. Mark that down as the fifth time this week he’s thought about killing the tactless bastard.

Hannibal sits silently, purses his lips, and waits for his question to be properly answered.

Will scoffs at the audacity and finally comes up with a solution.

“Quid pro quo,” he shrugs. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

“That’s fair,” Hannibal nods. “My parents were wholly and, perhaps unusually, ideal caretakers. My immediate family was absent entirely of aberrant behaviors, if memory and research serves correctly.”

“So trauma alone makes the man?” Will offers, leaning back in his chair.

He stops to give the matter some thought before answering. “I think we all have propensities for a great number of things inherent to our nature. Sometimes it takes a catalyst, trauma in some cases, to help us see the extent of our capabilities. Until that moment, we might be blind to our potential. Does the budding artist know what splendor he can create unless he picks up the brush?”

“So the capacity for violence is always there?”

“In certain people,” Hannibal explains.

“Do you believe the same about me?”

“Yes.”

“Which is why you induced trauma in my life,” Will states, eyes cast down, studying the minute whirls of color in the marble countertop.

“In every instance but a few, I’ve done what I thought would be in your best interest,” Hannibal assures.

Will remains motionless, refusing to scratch a phantom itch that trickles across the scar on his abdomen. He knows that _few_ in this case refers to topics they’ll likely never be comfortable enough to properly discuss.

“I realize that now,” Will finally answers. He wants to joke about just how devoid of comfort that notion is, but he stops with the words on the tip of his tongue because, somehow, it actually _is_ still comforting.

“But,” Will taps his fingers on the counter, pressing his fingernails against the cold surface until they bend. “-you could have pursued me like a normal person,” he quips, not much conviction behind his words.

“We’re not normal people, are we?” Hannibal answers, watching the way the empath fidgets and avoids eye contact. Talking about their feelings for each other, and the way those feelings manifested over the years, is clearly still something that leaves Will with a fair bit of apprehension.

“No-” he laughs roughly. “-normal is not the word I would use.”

“One of the first things you told me was that you didn’t find me interesting,” Hannibal continues. “If, in your eyes, I had stayed a man and not a monster, you would have been content to leave me on the outskirts of your world. You would have forgotten my name.”

Will doesn’t deny this.

Part of him is glad for the intensity of the approach Hannibal decided to use. It got him to this point. It gave him a level of clarity that he had never before possessed about himself. It allowed him to rejoice in the here and now. It gave him a partner who both sees him and accepts him.

But the other part of him is still holding onto the bitter taste of the past, wishing he could soften the rough edges of the last five years, wishes he could dig his hands into the warm clay and mold his own becoming.

He settles for acceptance and finishes his coffee.

A plate of something resembling breakfast sausage and a leafy medley of greens appears in front of him. It’s drizzled in a red sauce that smells like raspberries. He’s sure the dish has a multi-syllable name, and a rich cultural history, but Will has never paid much attention to these sort of things. He feigns interest to indulge Hannibal, but what he cares about more is the maroon eyes hungrily lapping up the sight before them.

“So,” Will gets out between noisy bites. “What else was your family like? Aside from being excruciatingly non-homicidal.”

Hannibal laughs, a real laugh instead of the artifice Will was used to hearing over the years. It’s something he’s been doing more often as of late, letting genuine emotion slip through the cracks.

As Will studies the crinkled skin around the corners of his companion’s eyes, he wonders absently if this is what happiness looks like on Hannibal Lecter. Or, if he’s still just dipping his toes in the shallow end of the pool.

“My mother was an opera singer in Vilnius, before she met my father. Her performance career was over by the time I was born, but she was ever the patron of the arts. She had me taking piano lessons and attending recitals before I could properly speak,” he pauses to appraise Will’s expression. “It was wonderful.”

Will thinks of the records Hannibal puts on sometimes, late at night. He thinks of the slippery tears that gather in the corner of his eyes that look so out of place on such a stoic face.

“My father was less involved than I should have liked as a child, but I certainly could have fared worse when it comes to paternal figures. He taught me about orienteering and firearms. He demonstrated tactful negotiation amongst political leaders and showed me the finer points of diplomacy, and for that I am grateful.”

Will listens in reverent silence, mouth full of food.

“But as the son of a count, one is never lacking in teachers and mentors. I was always more interested in what the women in my life educated me in. Arts and academia. Anatomy and cooking. Animal husbandry. Mending wounds. Music. How to be a proper host. And etiquette, of course, which is an artform in and of itself.”

“Animal husbandry…?” Will inquires,fork scraping across the plate, eyes flicking up to Hannibal’s face.

“We had riding stables. One of my favorite haunts as a boy.” he explains, his gaze fixed steadily on the kitchen window, watching the songbirds flit to and fro. “A kennel of hunting dogs, as well.”

“Color me surprised.”

“I’m quite fond of animals,” he admits. “As our ancestors, they possess a unique window into our own existence.”

“I always assumed you just tolerated my dogs because of your interest in me.”

“The dogs? No. The pervasive layer of fur that blanketed your home and belongings? Yes.”

Will ignores the jab and gets straight to the point. “So. I wouldn’t be entirely incorrect in assuming that having a dog at some point in the future-”

“It isn’t off the table,” Hannibal interjects. “No. I would give you anything you wanted, Will.”

“Hmm.” He scoots the lasts bits of sausage around his plate, lost in thought. Picturing domestic life with Hannibal is still new to him, but somehow this small revelation makes it easier to imagine. Strange, still, but easier.

“Quid pro quo, Will,” Hannibal reminds him. “Tell me something about your childhood.”

“Uh, let’s see,” Will fumbles, silently cursing himself for agreeing to the trade. “My parents were good God-fearing catholic cajuns who managed to create _this_ -” He pauses to gesture at himself. “-masterpiece of psychological instability and clinical depression. So they couldn’t have been all that bad, right?”

“As amusing as I find your deflections, that was hardly elucidating,” he exhales, placing a hand over Will’s. “I don’t expect you to divulge every piece of your history to me at once, but I’d appreciate even a small effort at opening up.”

Will contemplates a more creative deflection but the look in those brown eyes is so tender that he elects to bite his tongue instead. He twitches his hand beneath Hannibal’s, and reflexively pulls away. Being emotionally vulnerable and physically close at the same time is too much to bear.

“God. Where to begin,” he trails off.

“It’s the one subject we never truly touched on in our therapy,” Hannibal interjects softly.

“I know,” he smiles but the light does not touch his eyes. “And I’m sure _you_ know that was intentional.”

“You’re aware there are rooms in the palace of my memories that I cannot set foot. As I am certain the same can be said of your mind. I’m not asking you to open those doors. I only ask that you allow me to roam the halls with you and listen to the echoes that resound there.”

“My upbringing is nothing like the story-book setting of yours. It’s not as _pretty_ ,” he clarifies, furrowing his eyebrows together.

“Status and wealth don’t always equate to happiness.”

“No. But neither does poverty.”

Hannibal nods in solemn agreement.

“Um,” Will swallows hard, realizing the vulnerable state he’s about to saunter right into. He’s not fond of talking honestly about himself in any manner, and discussing his youth falls exceedingly low on the list of things he enjoys doing.

“I was alone a lot. Taking care of myself, I mean,” he continues, speaking slowly and with a questioning air to his statements, as if he’s not sure he’s saying the right things. “My dad worked the shipyards along the Bayou Teche for a while. He followed the work and I learned how to be self sufficient.”

He expects some flowery analogy or profound analysis from Hannibal. But none comes, so he continues.

“The closest comparison I have to growing up in a castle is living in a trailer park with the word “estates” in its name.” His laugh is a caustic, stunted thing. “Just one more residence in a long line of places.” He pauses to brush an unruly curl off his forehead.

“Motels, mobile homes. A few apartments. Some were good, some bad. Some were hazardous to human health,” he shrugs. “My childhood could best be described as transient.”

“Were your parents divorced?” Hannibal asks.

“They weren’t together to begin with. My dad didn’t know about me until my mom showed up to drop off a toddler on his doorstep. He raised me after that. Did the best that he could. I don’t resent him. But our relationship was always closer to roommates than father and son.”

“Do you remember your time with your mother?”

“No. Not really.”

“When I found myself unable to recall parts of my childhood, I experimented with sodium pentothal. It’s proven exceptionally successful with patients that have had repressed memories induced by trauma.”

“I’m not sure I want to remember,” Will concedes. “And, _Doctor_ , I’m not sure I would trust you to administer it.” He gives his companion an incredulous look.

Hannibal smiles thoughtfully, in a manner that seems almost nostalgic.

Will stands to place his empty plate in the sink, turning back for a moment to look at Hannibal. “I can see a thousand questions burning in your eyes.” He turns on the tap to rinse his plate. “And probably a few assessments about _mommy issues_ .” He cringes. “Now, _there’s_ a phrase I never want to say again.”

“It’s testing my restraint,” Hannibal jests. There’s a smile in his voice. “I truly am trying very hard.”

“Good. Keep trying,” Will sighs out, suddenly feeling exhausted despite the early hour.

“Tell me a memory you’re fond of,” Hannibal asks.

“Alright,” Will agrees tentatively.

He breathes deeply and leans back against the counter, giving himself time to think.

“When I was ten, there was this little trailer we had by the railroad tracks in Modeste. Just outside of Baton Rouge,” he explains. “And there were a few nights, at dinner, that I noticed my dad was leaving quite a lot on his plate. This, coming from a man who had very little reservations about what he ate, seemed odd to me. Coupled with the fact that I’d hear him leave after I was in bed every night.”

Will scratches the stubble on the side of his face, and quickly averts his eyes when he notices the way Hannibal is giving him his undivided attention.

“I decided to follow him out one night. Snuck out of bed and found him sitting on an overturned trash can down by the tracks with a pair of scrappy Catahoula mutts, a bottle of whiskey, and his harmonica. He was, uh-” He lets a grin peal its way across his face. “He’d been feeding the strays. He was playing music for the dogs while they ate.”

He laughs and Hannibal mirrors his smile.

“I was afraid he’d be angry with me for following him,” Will reveals. “But, for once, he wasn’t. He sat me on his lap and taught me how to play harmonica. A rare exchange of affection. Which, I guess, is why it stands out.”

“You loved your father?” Hannibal asks, his voice a reverent hush.

“Yes,” he admits.

“And your mother, did you want to love her too?”

The smile quickly falls away from Will’s face. “All I know of my mother is that she and my aunt used to refer to me as _the changeling_. So, a more apt question would be: did she want to love me.”

“Where is your father now, Will?”

“Dead,” he replies without missing a beat.

“My condolences-” Hannibal begins but is interrupted.

“Don’t start,” Will groans, casually raising a hand to wave away the sympathy. “It wasn’t a surprise. He and I both knew it was coming.”

“Cirrhosis of the liver,” Will clarifies. “He was turned down for a transplant. The doctors didn’t believe he could put down the bottle once he healed. And they were probably right.”

A flicker of satisfaction floats across Hannibal’s face, his initial assumption proving to be true. But he refuses to gloat in front of Will.

“He lived with me in Wolf Trap for a few months, until he died.”

Hannibal knows this already. In the delicate beginnings of their relationship, he had appeased his curiosity by exploring every inch of Will’s house under the guise of feeding the dogs. He had ventured upstairs. He had seen the dusty, tomb-like master bedroom, inhaled the diaphanous, lingering scent of old death. The room was barren except for a hospital bed, stripped of its linens, and a pile of unmarked cardboard boxes in the corner. It gave the appearance that someone had tried -and failed- several times to pack away the bad memories.

He has never told Will this.

Hannibal rises from his seat and pushes past his companion to turn off the sink faucet, which Will has been letting run this entire time.

“Oh,” Will scoots away and snaps out of his thoughts. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I left that-”

“Quite alright,” Hannibal soothes.

He places his own dishes in the sink and begins washing them by hand, passing them off to Will to dry and put away. Will silently obliges and loses himself in the mindless task.

“You and I may have had vastly different circumstances under which we came of age,” Hannibal begins.

Will scoffs. “Understatement of the year,” he interjects.

“Even so, we have still managed to arrive at a place of convergence. I see you, and you see me. We are able to accept each other despite what we were born into. I believe that speaks to destiny.”

“You always like to bring it back around to our common fate,” Will notes, twirling the hand towel around the plate in endless circles until he can see his own dark reflection on the gleaming white surface.

“I’ve always been more concerned with the present, and our connection is the crux of the here and now. The past may have held sway over our early forms, but the present is what matters.”

“Well, here I am, inescapably yours,” Will replies, not looking up from his task.

“I would not have it any other way,” Hannibal answers, handing another dripping mug to Will.

Will glances up and sees the way Hannibal’s smile touches his eyes. He tries to look away. But those eyes, they catch him and close in around him like jagged teeth dragging along his throat. Eyes that draw in the light from the window. Spherical pools the color of warm whiskey in the sun. They’re bottomless, full of gentleness, full of adoration, spilling over and painting the room with shades of wildflower honey. It’s so terribly easy to forget how equally well they reflect scarlet splashes of blood, that they can hold just as much cruelty as they can kindness.

Those eyes will swallow him alive. And he knows he’d love every second of it.

He knows how much he’d relish being devoured.

Will puts away the mug and closes the cabinet door harshly. There’s an itch just beneath the skin and it’s telling him to get away while he still can.

“I n-need to-” he announces, searching for an out. He clears his throat and tries again. “I planned on fixing the shower today. I should get started on that. Bathing every day is getting a bit old.”

He’s out of the kitchen before Hannibal has a chance to answer.

  
  
  


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Will has spent the better part of an hour unearthing the plumbing from behind the shower wall. Bits of tile, and the crumblings of the lath and plaster wall have gathered around the floor beneath his feet. Dust circulates through the air, visible in the beams of light that filter through the frosted windows panes. He sets down the hammer and pry bar. The demolition brought him sufficient satisfaction, serving as an outlet for the dissonant energy within himself.

He tries his hardest not to look over and see the little white chair beside the bathtub, but the memories of their first conversations here still float through his mind. A prickle of fear ghosts along the back of his neck, as he dissuades an onslaught of passing thoughts.

Fear has always been the driving force in his life.

He tells himself that it no longer grips him as it once did. But it hasn’t lost its hold, only changed its shape.

He’s cautious. Careful not to let himself fall into complacency about anything in his life. But with caution comes missed opportunities.

Red flags still pop up on occasion, in the dark recesses of his mind, telling him not to trust Hannibal this deeply. But if he’s being honest with himself (and he’s been making an effort to do just that) that particular worry is an old, dull ache that he cares very little about anymore. If the past few months have taught him anything, it’s that Hannibal no longer holds the power between the two of them. He wears his heart on his sleeve, a monster with a weakness a mile wide.

This new shape of fear is more concerned with loss than with betrayal. It tells him that keeping the current incarnation of their relationship is the best course of action. Don’t take the risk. Don’t be brave. Having a sliver of happiness is better than losing it all for something as inconsequential as consummating it with physical affection.

He’s tried to tell himself he’s content with the way things are. The gentle brush of their bodies against each other when they’re working in close quarters, or the way Hannibal sometimes tucks a lock of Will’s hair behind his ear when it’s dangling down in front of his eyes. He wants so badly for these little gestures to be enough. But they aren’t. He knows that now. And that knowledge is only increasing with time.

When Will first realized that Hannibal found him attractive, he had planned on taking advantage of the situation with the full intent of torturing his prey in a long and grueling game. But now, the loneliness that pools around his chest when he’s further than a few inches from Hannibal’s skin is gnawing down his initial intentions.

The irony bites into him like acid: Hannibal had forced Will’s psychological unraveling at a frenzied pace, resulting in the very narrow avoidance of both of their deaths. But Hannibal has been painfully slow when it comes to the acceleration of any physical intimacy between them.

It begs the question, _why?_ A sickening idea occurs to him, perhaps he’s been misreading Hannibal’s intentions.

Will shakes off the thought and dives back into the matter at hand, making a conscious effort to not let his mind wander further. It’s a coping mechanism he’s been defaulting to a lot in the past few weeks: fixing up as many things as he can around the house. Keeping his body and mind busy. It’s been a useful distraction, and one that no one else can rightly criticize him for since it’s been incredibly helpful.

He can see the sulphurous buildup clogging the pores of the old, rust-tinted shower head. He grabs a wrench from the toolbox he had found in the basement, climbs up onto the seat in the corner of the shower, and begins trying to work loose the bolt that’s connecting it to the water line.

The wrench keeps slipping, in an infuriating manner that perfectly mirrors his current frustrations. He trades it out for a pair of locking pliers and tries again, this time using his full force to torque down on it. It doesn’t so much as rotate a centimeter.

“Shit,” he mutters. He’s certain it won’t budge without some lubrication or heat.

He’s in a precarious location though, standing on the edge of the tile seat, body contorted unnaturally, and gripping the curtain rod for support. He’d rather not have to reposition if possible. So he calls out Hannibal’s name into the cavernous lodge.

No answer. He tries a second time. Louder.

And a third. Still, no answer.

“He’s out in the garden, Will,” comes a soft reply.

“Oh. Chiyoh,” he turns his head over his shoulder to give her a brief glance. She’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the threshold, watching him with curiosity in her gaze.

“Well. Can you go- Can you ask him if-” he manages to get out between pants, still trying to loosen the bolt with brute force. “If he has any WD-40 around here? Or, _fuck_ , a blow torch, even?”

“I’ll ask,” she nods at him, with a smug smile barely concealed. Fond of him as she’s grown, there’s still something about seeing Will struggle that amuses her.

She heads out the door, leaving Will alone again.

He groans, wishing his muscles hadn’t atrophied as much as they had after the fall. Their prolonged healing had meant moving around as little as possible, especially for the first month. He’s never been what you might consider the epitome of masculinity. He was small and frail as a child. But what he lacked in inborn propensity for muscle tone, he had always more than made up for in resilience and energy. Both of which still seem to be lost in the wind at the moment.

He decides to give it one more go, this time putting the entirety of his weight into it.

_There._

It snaps off, bits of rust flying into the air.

But the shower curtain rod Will was using as a bracing point decides to break loose at the same time, sending him, the metal rod, and several fractured pieces of tile tumbling down onto the hard floor in a dusty, graceless heap.

Less than a minute after, the shower head topples down and smacks him on the forehead as an extra _fuck you_ from the house.

“Goddammit,” Will seethes, falling back against the cool porcelain, defeated.

He can hear the rhythmic clacking of dress shoes approaching from down the hall. Which, of course, means it can only be Hannibal.

“Will, I found-” He stops in his tracks as he takes in the scene before him. “Oh.”

“Your timing is impeccable,” Will mocks and takes Hannibal’s hand when it is offered to him. He stands with a groan, brushes off the debris, and assesses the damage.

“Will. Your face.” Hannibal tries to grab Will’s chin to get a closer look but Will bats his hands away in favor of inspecting it himself.

He hobbles over to the mirror. Ribbons of scarlet are trickling down from a split lip that is very nearly cleaved in two. He wrenches his mouth open to see a divet of flesh missing from his tongue as well, no doubt from biting down as his head hit the floor.

“Shit. I think I chipped a tooth too,” he rasps out, wrenching his upper lip away from his front teeth.

“Let me see,” Hannibal pleads.

Will finally holds still long enough to let the doctor give a thorough examination. He can’t tell if his heart is racing from the pain or the fact that Hannibal’s hips are pressing into his own. He wonders if it’s intentional, or just to keep Will’s squirming body in place while he checks for more injuries.

Hannibal retrieves a small, slender flashlight from his pocket and tests Will’s eyes for pupil dilation.

“Are you dizzy?” he asks, his manner methodical and his tone official. “Feeling confused or disoriented?”

“No more than usual,” Will quips, a dark laugh stuck in his wet throat.

“Your face has been subject to so much abuse,” Hannibal laments quietly, running the back of his hand along the thick scar Dollarhyde left.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Will swallows, acutely aware of how close their faces are to one another. He can smell the notes of vetiver and bergamot in Hannibal’s cologne, the mint on his warm breath.

“You should be more careful,” he exhales like a tired parent, pulling himself back away to a respectable distance.

Will opens his mouth to respond with a snide remark but he can feel the warmth of blood pooling inside, coppery sweetness slipping across his tongue.

He turns his head to spit out a substantial amount of gore into the sink. He leans over the porcelain basin, letting the viscous mixture of saliva and blood drain from his lips.

“What a waste,” Hannibal remarks in a tone close to a whisper, watching the serpentine streams of red swirl down the drain.

“What? You want it instead?” Will jokes, words coming out wet and slurred.

But when he turns back to face Hannibal, he can see an unexpected hunger residing in those amber eyes. It hits him hard in the gut, sends waves of nervous energy shuddering through his body.

No one he’s been with before has ever shown even an inkling of desire as potent and all-consuming as Hannibal’s. Being the object of that desire is both terrifying and exhilarating, a wholly new experience. One that Will finds himself wanting to plunge right into, soak beneath the waves of lust, and never come up for air.

He racks his brain for a way to tempt his monster to close the distance between them, he’s desperate to unravel the restraint that clings to the twitching corners of Hannibal’s mouth.

_Restraint._ This portrait of inhibition is a funny thing to see on the face of someone who has endeavored to remove every ounce of your own self control.

He wants _permission_. Will arrives at this conclusion, and decides to test the theory. He raises a trembling hand and coils a finger through one of his mentor’s belt loops, giving it a light tug, just enough to bridge the gap between their hips again. Hannibal watches him intently, maroon eyes following the length of Will’s arm, anticipation palpable in the hitch in his breathing.

Will is pleased with this response, the power he’s been given is intoxicating, addicting even. And he wants _more_. He trails his fingers along the silky material of Hannibal’s shirt, pressing down so that he can feel the warmth beneath the material. It’s probably more expensive than anything Will has ever bought for himself. So it’s all the more satisfying when a drip of blood falls from his lips and soaks in, blooming into a vermilion stain the shape of a rose petal. Hannibal doesn’t seem to care in the least.

“Will,” Hannibal sighs out his name in a quiet protest, a question burning behind his darkened eyes.

“I want this,” Will assures him in dulcet tones.

When their lips meet for the first time, it's unexpectedly soft. It begins as tender and exploratory, sweet and mild, decorated with all the innocence characteristic of youth. But it isn’t long before it rapidly careens into mania. Teeth digging into flesh, palms spreading against torsos with a sense of urgency. The delirium spreads like the opening of a floodgate, a shared madness pulsing through the both of them. Hannibal pins Will’s hips against the vanity and bends his spine back over the sink so that the back of his head is pressing against the mirror.

Pain blossoms forth like a bright light in the darkness, radiating from his mouth and all across his head.

It hurts. It _really_ fucking hurts.

But the pleasure of the experience dulls his senses enough to ignore all but the sharpest peals of pain. He’ll regret this later, when he’s lying in bed, trying to fall asleep with a face full of bruises. He’ll curse himself for falling prey to careless whims, as he nurses a migraine into the early hours of the dawn.

But now, right now, he’s lapping up every second like a starving dog.

It feels _right,_ pain and all. It feels righteous, like their union was ordained by the highest powers. And _fuck it_ if it wasn’t, it feels too damn good to let it slip through his fingers. If their alliance meant descending to the depths of hell, then why not enjoy the warmth? If one is to court the devil, may as well bask in his glow.

“You love it when I’m covered in blood,” Will mumbles through sore lips. “My own, someone else’s. It doesn’t matter to you.”

They curl around each other like twins in utero, their tongues sharing the copper-sweet taste.

“I prefer it _not_ be yours, but the knowledge that it is does nothing to change how good it looks on you.”

“My point exactly,” Will scoffs, not entirely displeased with the truth. If anything, it makes this ceremony feel all the more sacred.

Hannibal presses a thumb to the slice along Will’s lip and coaxes out another trickle of the hot, ruby liquid. He pulls his thumb away and presses it to his tongue, relishing the taste. Will waits with bated breath until their lips come together again.

“This sort of aberrant behavior,” he murmurs softly against Hannibal’s warm mouth. “Should concern me.”

“Probably,” comes the whisper of a reply, before Hannibal kisses him again, wrapping a hand around his waist and pulling him closer.

“I should be-” he hums, lips being crushed once more. “-gripped with fear.”

“Most definitely,” Hannibal purrs, dragging his mouth along Will’s neck, down to his collarbone, and back up again, performing the cycle like a sinner receiving sacrament.

Will tangles his fingers in the silvery hair that cascades down from Hannibal’s head and uses the leverage to pull him closer, deeper. He’d let him climb inside and nestle into his ribs, if he could. A beast in a cage of bone, the only cage Hannibal would ever willingly walk into.

Their frenzied pace settles, hard breaths slipping out between kisses that are growing gentler with each passing moment.

A spout of uncontrollable laughter falls gently from Will’s lips.

Hannibal pulls back in cautious amusement, cataloguing the way Will’s eyes reflect the yellow tint of the bathroom light.

“Have I done something so entertaining?” he asks, genuinely curious and showing just the slightest hint of panic.

“No, no. It’s just,” Will tries to explain. “ _Of course_ this is how it would begin with us.”

“And how would that be?”

“With a mouthful of blood.”


	9. The Sun and Lesser Stars

. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

  
  


The little hand on the analog clock shifts forward incrementally with an infuriatingly loud _tick_. It’s 3:45am, his body aches and his lips are bruised. But the pain isn’t the reason Will can’t sleep. 

His mind is alight with questions and imagined answers, a ball of roots untangling itself with visions of skin on skin. 

He contemplates forsaking his own bed in favor of bringing some of his fantasies to fruition. It’s only a hallway, only a few walls, that separate them now. It’s tempting to cross the distance. But the chaste, almost clinical, way Hannibal cleaned him up after their _encounter_ makes him think twice. He’d sent Will to bed with a shot of lidocaine and an itch that hadn’t quite been scratched. 

He replays the scene in the bathroom a thousand times over in his head. He focuses on the images and sensations alone, quieting the internal monologue. He still can’t bring himself to call it what it was, all the normal terms seem woefully ordinary to bestow upon a relationship as unorthodox as theirs. 

He mulls over the prospective next steps, regardless of designations. Will can count on one hand the number of successful relationships he’s had. Successful being a term here that is highly debatable. None of them with men. He imagines Hannibal has far more experience in this arena, though that’s just an assumption. He makes a mental note to find a way to ask him about his history. His stomach lurches at the thought, and he’s not sure if it's jealousy or nerves. 

They can artfully pick apart each other’s predatory tendencies, without so much as batting an eyelash these days. But somehow this feels intimidating in a way that is new to Will.

He absently presses his fingers to the spot on his left hand where his wedding band used to sit. There was once a nearly permanent tan line there. But it’s barely distinguishable now, a phantom that exists only in his mind.

No, _nothing_ was going to be simple or straight-forward about this. Of course not, nothing involving Hannibal ever was. But the thought does little to deter Will from fervently wanting more.

Ultimately, it was just a kiss. ( _There_ , he’s called it by name.) And he’s getting way too far ahead of himself. Overthinking is one of his most polished skills, after all. The thought of Hannibal content in his own bed, sleeping soundly instead of distressing, makes Will feel weak. 

He laughs at the absurdity of all this, throws a pillow over his head (regrets that, _ouch_ ), and drifts into a dreamless sleep.

  
  


. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

Will sleeps far longer than he intends to. When he finally extricates himself from the nest of blankets, it's nearly noon. He can hear the soft peals of piano strings seeping in beneath the door to his room. The music does nothing for his throbbing head, but it’s lovely all the same. He sits in the darkness a few moments longer and tries to imagine the careful precision with which Hannibal’s fingers hit each key. 

In the living room, Hannibal's form is lithe and taut, back arched elegantly over the piano, the muscles of his shoulders tensing as he plays a vibrant piece from Verdi’s _La Traviata._ The buoyant melodies echo off the stone walls of the chalet. The space feels hallowed like a cathedral.

Chiyoh leans over the instrument, draping her thin arms across the slick black cover of the grand piano. 

“Your smile betrays you,” she whispers, folding her hands together. Her lips peel back to reveal a tiny flash of white teeth. 

“Does it?” He glances up at her briefly, his hands undeterred from their task.

“It reminds me of Paris,” she hums. 

His eyes flick up in recognition, lips parting on an exhale.

“You were as transparent then with her, as you are now with him,” she notes, idly trailing her fingers along the beveled edges of the surface. “You guard your heart poorly.”

He appears to take this in, musing in silent contemplation before finally acknowledging her. "A fatal flaw, some might surmise."

"Yes,” she observes. “But fatal for who?”

Hannibal tips his chin up at her with a tight-lipped smile, the very image of a precocious child. 

Will’s shuffling form emerges from the dark hall, hair in disarray, and still clad in a white t-shirt and a pair of navy pajama pants. 

“Will.” His name falls like a prayer from reverent lips. Hannibal stands abruptly, with uncharacteristic gracelessness, piano bench squealing as it slides along the floor. Chiyoh holds back laughter, biting her lip. 

“I’m afraid we’ve already eaten,” Hannibal announces. “Allow me to prepare something for–”

“No, no. Keep playing. I can feed myself,” Will assures, waving away the offer.

Will takes in the man before him. There’s something amiss, though he doesn’t immediately key into what it is. Energy radiates from Hannibal like the glow of a furnace coil, but the way his pupils dilate slowly and the dark, tumescent rings beneath his eyes belie a weariness he’s hiding.

It hits him. Last night left Hannibal sleepless as well.

Will oscillates between wicked satisfaction and a tender compassion that tugs at his heart. 

“Please,” he adds, knowing full well the weight of that word in Hannibal’s mind. “You play beautifully.”

And that seems to do it. 

Hannibal nods, takes his seat without further discussion, and resumes playing. The space is once again filled with music. 

Chiyoh follows Will into the kitchen, watching him while he rummages around the refrigerator. 

Hannibal has made abundantly clear his position on leftovers, but both Chiyoh and Will have no qualms with eating the same dish twice. Or three times. After much debate, he now accommodates them by leaving the excess for a few days before tossing it out. It’s a marked improvement over the one-day policy he used to employ. 

“What happened?” She asks, gesturing to Will's face. Dark spheres of violet and mauve mottle his skin from forehead to chin, his lower lip split and swollen. 

“I fell,” he states simply and pulls a glass container out of the fridge. 

She looks at him with incredulity, the silence between them leaving room for further explanation. 

“No one pushed me, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he adds, knowing the reference will not be lost on Chiyoh.

“Looks better this way,” she taunts.

“Thanks,” he says, shoving a spoonful of food into his mouth. “I can help you achieve the look, if you want,” he teases between bites. “Free of charge.”

“How generous.”

“How long has he been up?” Will tries to ask as casually as possible, but a note of concern presses through regardless.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

He finishes chewing and swallows hard. “Because I want an honest answer.” 

She smiles at this. 

  
  


. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

  
  


Hannibal becomes increasingly hard to read over the next few days. He’s jovial, but guarded. He keeps his distance, like a dog that’s been scolded for having his paws on the table.

Will is getting tired of playing these little games. The bathroom had felt like a wave cresting. He was expecting the crash, a descent. It felt, instead, like the tide pulling away and reeling in reverse, back to the sea. 

He was right to think this wouldn't be easy. 

His pride doesn't let him come right out and ask Hannibal what he’s thinking. Not yet, at least. Letting Hannibal catch even a whiff of desperation would be mortifying. 

So he waits.

The boiler was acting up again, taking up a substantial amount of Will’s time anyway. Tonight, he resolves to fix it for good. 

Will rushes through dinner, ignoring the pointed stares it earns him from Hannibal, eager to diagnose and subsequently remedy the issue. 

He ends up spending the better part of his evening embroiled in trench warfare with the antique metal behemoth. After a particularly eventful battle, he declares a tentative victory and packs up his tools. His pants are grimy where his knees had ground into the muddy grit on the fractured concrete, legs sore and weak from kneeling so long. 

He should probably head upstairs and clean off. At least he finally had the shower fixed now. 

But, idle curiosity gets the best of him and he decides to take a few minutes to explore the vast basement. The labyrinthine space is immense, and the very nature of it incurs a state of awe. He wonders what Hannibal has hidden away down here.

The back portion of the basement, which is devoted to a storehouse, is devoid of electricity. No pull-string lights, no windows, just the dusty gloom and a dull glow far away coming from the light on the stairs. He flicks on the flashlight he’s brought with him and ventures down a row of tall racks. 

He leans against a shelf for a moment while he picks at the dirt beneath his fingernails. Molly used to scrub them for him, with an old toothbrush, after he would come in on summer nights, hands black from working on boat motors. These quiet memories float around him still like flecks of dust in a beam of sunlight: always there, but you don't notice them until someone shines a light. 

As if on cue, the flashlight he’s holding flickers and threatens to give out.

“Damn it,” he mumbles, fiddling with the buttons. It flashes bright for a moment, providing a glimmer of hope, before burning out completely. Darkness rushes in to fill the void. 

Will shakes the flashlight, before trying to pry open the battery compartment, completely focused on the task at hand.

Hannibal materializes behind him, silently placing a hand on Will’s shoulder.

“Motherfuck–” He jumps at the sudden contact and tries very hard to quell his urge to strangle the man. “We talked about this,” he seethes.

“My sincerest apologies,” Hannibal hums. But even in the dark, Will can see the glee in the doctor’s eyes. Hannibal’s a glutton for even the smallest displays of predatory supremacy. 

Will shrugs off the hand resting on his shoulder, and immediately misses the warmth after doing so. 

“I thought you might be interested in joining us. But–” he pauses, and looks over Will’s body from head to toe. “I can see now that you may wish to clean up first.”

Will huffs and considers taking some of the black grease and trailing it along Hannibal’s smug face. It would be incredibly satisfying.

“I’m just finishing up,” he says instead, retrieving a rag from his pocket and wiping off his hands. “You’ve got enough down here to survive any apocalyptic scenario I could possibly dream up,” he comments. “Maybe even a few that I can’t.”

“Foresight has saved my life on more than one occasion.”

“Preparation is one thing. This is bordering on doomsday level shit,” Will remarks, while idly trailing his fingers along the rows of neatly stacked bins. The shelves tower from ceiling to floor and divide the room into aisles like bookshelves in a library. 

“Is every safehouse you have this well-stocked?” Will asks.

“Not all to this extent. I will admit I favored this one, knowing it’s location would hold the most appeal for you.”

Will pretends to hold a microphone and puts on his best narrator voice. “Next time, on Hoarders: Buried Alive– Doctor Hannibal Lecter and his excessive collection of...” Will grabs the nearest box off the shelf and reads the label. “...nasogastric gavage tubes? Unsettling for different reasons.”

Hannibal smiles softly, amused with Will’s good humor. He takes the box from Will’s hands and places it back on the shelf, gently sweeping away the dust. “I recall you implying that reality television was beneath you.” 

Will shrugs. “I don’t really watch tv. I often find it… overwhelming.” His speech drops to a mumble. “Except–”

Hannibal watches expectantly.

“They did a Dateline special. On you,” Will states. He fails to mention the fact that he recorded it, along with several other broadcasts. Or that he used to rewatch them whenever Molly took Walter to see his paternal grandparents for the weekend. 

“I’m aware,” Hannibal says. “Though I possessed no means by which to watch it.”

Will smiles, slightly parting his lips, feeling glad to be privy to something his partner was not. “What a shame,” he replies. “It was a real nail biter. Too bad they got the ending wrong.”

“Honestly, Will, I’m surprised you watched it,” Hannibal taunts. He wasn’t surprised in the least, of course. “After the speech you gave when we parted ways.”

“Well. You know me. Full of surprises,” Will mutters and rolls his eyes. 

He continues walking deeper into one of the long, narrow aisles. The further he treks, the darker the space becomes. He looks over his shoulder to find Hannibal still following slowly at a distance, his angular figure illuminated from behind by the dim light trickling down from the stairwell. 

“If memory serves correctly, you swore to completely separate your thoughts from my state of affairs. It sounds as though you failed to fulfill that promise,” Hannibal contends. The way Will pointedly avoids his gaze is proof enough that he’s struck his target. “But here you were, devouring every scrap of news, every tabloid broadcast.” Another strike. 

“I just wanted to see if they accurately captured your virulent narcissism,” Will snaps back. “But it seems that’s something you can only experience fully in person.”

Will’s searching fingers find a gas mask on one of the shelves. He recognizes the design, it’s similar to the one that was in Hannibal’s possession the night Will had come home to find Mason Verger drugged and feeding his own face to the dogs. 

“I would handle that with care,” Hannibal interjects casually.

Will puts it back on the shelf, with an eyebrow raised. He can only imagine what traces of hallucinogenic drugs might linger on its surfaces. It leaves more questions than answers.

Hannibal dives back into their debate. “I’ve been beholden to an abundance of complaints but have yet to see any action.”

He receives no answer.

Will rounds a corner quickly and slips silently into the inky blackness, leaving Hannibal alone between the shelves of medical supplies. 

Hannibal walks in silence, arms folded behind his back, maroon eyes drifting over the shadowy shapes stretching wide into the cavernous space.

When Will emerges again, he’s hot on the heels of his prey, a pilfered scalpel pressed to Hannibal’s throat, his other arm coiled tightly around the doctor’s midsection. 

“You’re getting quicker.” Hannibal’s voice was laden with pride. His muscles tense but he does not struggle against Will’s grip. There is no fear in his features.

“Or perhaps you’re just getting old,” Will baits him. He balances the scalpel between his fingers and lets it teeter closer to the delicate flesh of Hannibal’s neck, until it finds a soft fold and ushers forth a droplet of blood. 

He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing against Will’s fingers. 

In a single fluid movement, Hannibal twists his leg around Will’s and kicks his feet out from underneath him, sending the empath careening onto the hard concrete floor. Will grabs a shelf on the way down, triggering a cascade of boxes to tumble down with him.

“Age brings discipline, patience. And you become easy to read when something gets under your skin,” Hannibal finishes. He presses a hand to the cut on his neck and pulls his fingers away to inspect the damage. It’s superficial, no cause for concern, but bleeding nonetheless. He keeps pressure on the scrape until the blood begins to congeal. 

He stands above his adversary, peering down. The glow in his eyes is stuck somewhere between hunger and sympathy. He extends his bloodied hand down to a panting, furious Will. 

“You’ve made a terrible mess,” Hannibal chides. 

Will takes his hand gently, feigning a truce, before swiftly grabbing his mentor’s wrist with both arms. He yanks hard, and the force pulls Hannibal down onto the ground beside him. Using speed to his advantage, Will clambers over the fallen debris and pins the other man to the ground, straddling his waist, one hand gripping the scalpel and the other tangling through Lecter’s hair. 

“I’m pleased to see I have a capable hunting partner,” Hannibal touts between breaths. He eyes the shining blade and places a hand on Will’s wrist, his other hand coming to rest on Graham’s hip. 

Will doesn’t answer. 

The air between them is hot and humid, their rough exhalations mixing together in the closely shared space. The scents of sweat and blood and mildew swirl around them.

Will is becoming painfully aware of the burning heat spreading through his flushed skin and circulating down into his gut. His heart won’t slow it’s frenzied pace. He curses himself, his heart rate was lower killing Randall Tier than right now, perched on top of Hannibal. He keeps his weight balanced on his knees, hovering. He doesn’t dare let his body have any more contact with the man beneath him. He wonders if Hannibal’s altogether inhuman sense of smell allows him to detect arousal, wonders what that specific cocktail of chemicals smells like to him. 

He holds the blade firmly, and once again digs it into the skin of his prey’s neck until it makes a dark divet. The wicked smile forming on Hannibal’s lips is not making this any easier. 

“Lacking conviction, Will?”

“God, do you ever shut up.” 

The look in Hannibal’s eyes says _make me_. And Will decides to do just that. 

It’s softer than he meant it to be, warm lips folding gently into one another.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, alarms were still sounding. _This is still a game_ , they said. _You’re playing right into,_ they said. _You’re giving him what he wants, and you must never do that,_ they said. 

But the way Hannibal utterly melts beneath him shuts down any remaining protests from Will’s mind. 

The game has been over for a long time.

Will drops the blade to the ground and uses both hands to pull their bodies closer together.

At first it’s feverish, with a bit of fumbling on Will’s part. He expects this to surmount in the shared passion that their kiss in the bathroom elicited, but there’s a tremor in Hannibal’s hands that is growing harder to ignore.

Hannibal is the first to break away, leaning his head against Will’s shoulder, sucking in the stale air.

“Why–” Will asks, lips falling back onto Hannibal’s before he can finish the question.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“You’re fighting this. Why?”

Hannibal leans back and slides his hands down Will’s sides. “I wanted to give you back the control I once took from you.”

Will pulls back. “So this is the man, repentant? Attempting to make amends?” He shakes his head and his loose, dark curls settle across his forehead. “No. I don’t buy it. There’s more.”

“You are not the only one subject to motivation from fear,” Hannibal admits.

“Fear of what?”

“Of losing you.”

He wants to laugh at this, but stifles the urge. Of all the things that would drive Will away, _this_ is the one he thinks will do it?

“I had feared that I crossed a line,” Hannibal states.

Alright, this time he can’t stop himself. A laugh escapes from Will’s lips and finds its way into the soft flesh of Hannibal’s neck. Will leans into the warmth there and presses his forehead against his skin. 

“Our entire relationship has been built upon _crossed lines_ ,” he comments idly, and intertwines their fingers. The thought weighs heavy on him.

Hannibal seems to ignore that sentiment and forges on. “I’m hesitant to allow you to throw yourself any further into this aspect of our relationship.”

“For your sake or my own?”

He pauses for a moment, readjusting his grip on Will’s shirt. “My sake. Mostly,” he finally admits.

Will scrunches his face, and waits for further explanation.

“If I am to lose you now,” Hannibal begins. “I may yet survive it. But if I am to have all of you, the loss may be too great.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “I never pegged you as someone who was so concerned with the carnal. _Sins of the flesh,_ ” he hums, tugging at the collar of Hannibal’s shirt, exposing the skin beneath his clavicle.

“On the contrary, I’m not terribly concerned with it. Though I’ve never denied myself any pursuit of pleasure.”

“Alana had once mentioned your string of affairs.”

Hannibal grins, exposing canines. 

But the smile fades away as he begins to speak again, and in its place falls a mask of solemnity. 

“This is not about a preoccupation with pleasure, nor a lack thereof,” Hannibal says. He exhales and tucks one of Will’s loose curls back into place. “Sex when coupled with honesty is a different matter entirely. It ascends the physical.”

Will knows what Hannibal is trying to express. He knows that this is something Hannibal has no experience with: the amalgamation of sex with love, honest-to-God vulnerability. Will understands the gravity of this all too well.

But fear and anger still edge out the concept of love in Will’s mind, so he deflects. “Wasn’t it Oscar Wilde who said everything in life is about sex, except the act itself. Sex is about power.”

“It’s an expression of trust,” Hannibal counters, a flicker of disappointment ghosting his features.

“And trust is something that you and I will _always_ have reservations about risking. We’ve both seen to that.”

“Perhaps not _always_.”

“Ever the optimist,” Will quips and looks away, hands engrossed in the act of unbuttoning Hannibal’s shirt.

Hannibal catches Will’s busy hand and grips it loosely, thumb palpating the pulse in his wrist. He takes his other hand and tips Will’s chin up, forcing eye contact. 

“Will, I am wholly content to have you in any way you will allow,” he explains. “If this never happens again, or never ventures further, I am just as satisfied.”

The air is still between them for a moment.

“Maybe I’m not,” Will whispers across the pliant skin of his neck. He takes his weight off of his knees and sinks down onto Hannibal’s lap, moving restlessly against the hard edges of the warm body beneath him. He rolls his hips with feverish enthusiasm, hands closing greedily around a lean neck. 

It certainly gets him the reaction he was looking for. Hannibal’s sharp teeth on his throat, warm hands on his hips, breathy utterances ringing in the shell of his ear. They come together like fire and matches. It occurs to him, he has this man caught so completely: hopelessly enamored. He could crush him if he so chose. Easily.

“There’s no reason to rush,” Hannibal murmurs, placing gentle kisses along Will’s jawline. “We have all the time in the world, _mano meilė_.”

“Tired of waiting,” Will growls. 

Hannibal places a firm hand on Will’s chest and holds him steady, halting any further advances. Will looks at him with a wild light in his eyes that suggests he might snap that wrist off to get to his prey.

Hannibal cocks his head to the side just a hair and sighs like a tired parent. “You will resent me if you leap into this on a whim.”

“Who says I don’t resent you now?” Will remarks. A low blow. He watches the light behind Hannibal’s eyes go dull and crimson, crestfallen but not entirely surprised. 

“If love and abuse can reside in the same house–” Will continues. “–then so can devotion and resentment.”

“Two dissimilar things can often intertwine,” Hannibal comments, voice low.

“And it isn’t a whim,” Will clarifies, starting to settle down, fervid anger diffusing into a mild frustration at himself. Old platitudes ring through his mind. _A clutch for balance._

“No?”

“No. It would be easier if it was. I had almost a month at sea to sort out what exactly it was that I felt about _this_ ,” he places a hand on Hannibal’s chest. “I understood it then. Didn’t accept it. I was sickened by the ache for you.”

“Was it you who was sickened by it, or was it the chorus of voices around you that told you to be ashamed?”

“Likely both,” Will answers. “But that’s part of the reason why I wanted to end it in Florence. I wanted to be rid of this feeling. I could bury my guilt along with you.” He grinds his nails into Hannibal’s shoulders. “It would have been _convenient_ ,” he concedes, punctuating the word with a tightening of his grip.

“You longed for closure and a return to normalcy, under the guise of forgiveness.”

“Yeah,” he sighs out and leans away slightly. “But the further I look into my past, the clearer the line becomes between normal and status quo. I’m realizing that, of the two, _normal_ was never a part of my life. Never will be. I just wanted peace.” 

“We can have peace.”

“Liar. You thrive in chaos.”

"I have always prided myself on being adaptable, but rarely am I motivated to exercise that skill. With you, _for you_ , I would meet any challenge, reshape myself to suit any situation." 

Will searches Hannibal’s face for an inkling of insincerity but finds none. What he finds in its place is something that makes his chest constrict. 

“Come on. It’s probably killing you to have those slacks on the dirty basement floor.” He lifts himself up off of Hannibal’s lap and extends an arm down to help him up.

He takes Will’s hand and rises. “I’m finding myself increasingly unbothered, where you are involved,” he reveals, dusting off his pants.

“Oh? I could always find new ways to _test_ your limits,” Will provokes and turns towards the light of the stairs.

Will looks back at Hannibal and expects to see his eyes mired with regret, apprehension. But instead, they’re light and soft, glowing with nothing less than absolute adoration.

  
  
  


. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

  
  
  


Hannibal had elected to reorganize the fallen provisions on his own. _A trip down memory lane_ , he’d said. But Will knew he just wanted to get things back in order efficiently without having to fuss over anyone else’s poor organizational skills. It wasn’t worth the trouble. That was fine by Will.

It would be best to get some space away from Hannibal, so he could recollect himself after the intensity of their...conflict? No. Not quite. Affair? Well, that was worse.

Will stumbles into the living room with a ridiculous grin plastered across his face, skin flushed, a slight sheen of sweat illuminating his features. 

He realizes too late that he’s not alone.

“Long overdue,” Chiyoh hums from her perch on the sofa, barely glancing up at Will. She smiles knowingly, the whiskey in her glass making its way to her grin.

He leans against the arm of the couch, crossing his arms over his chest, the cogs in his mind failing to turn.

“What?” he finally manages to get out, wires too crossed to come up with a snappy reply. The high he’s riding is still fogging his brain.

She nods in his direction and gestures to his neck. 

He presses his fingers to the space just below his ear, feeling the hot raised flesh there. There aren’t any reflective surfaces near enough for him to see what it looks like, but his imagination can fill in the blanks.

“Bastard...” he mutters, his tone coated in more affection than he intends. 

His mind floods with the images of corpses riddled with suck-marks inflicted by sexual sadists. They line up as vivid pictures on bland powerpoints from lectures he’d taught too many times. The pathology of bites, pre and post mortem.

Suddenly he’s lying on the cold silver table of the morgue and Hannibal is cutting the y-shaped incision into his chest.

_See?_ He says. _That wasn't so bad._ He cracks a rib and pulls forth a stillborn heart, pressing the bloody flesh to his lips. He winks, before taking a smiling bite. 

That scenario brings Will much more satisfaction than it should. 

But not as much as imagining the reverse. 

Chiyoh’s voice interrupts his thoughts and snaps him back to the present. 

“I gave you a demonstration once,” she says. “But, you make for a poor student.”

He recalls a bittersweet kiss before hurtling off a train into the darkness of the Lithuanian winter.

He gently lifts her feet up off the edge of the couch and sits beside her, letting her legs fall across his lap. Her body is warm and limp, breath acrid with alcohol. He idly wonders what it was that kindled her into this level of indulgence. 

“ _Other means of influence,_ ” he recites back to her, bringing forth the memory of that night. He settles into the couch cushions and rests his hands on the bare skin of her ankles. “You actually meant that?”

“Yes, I meant it. Unlike Hannibal, I do not make it my mission to speak in riddles.”

Will glances at her, before returning his gaze to the floor, studying the intricate pattern of the rug beneath his feet.

“I’ve seen him in love before, in his youth,” Chiyoh imparts, voice abnormally lyrical.

Will perks up at this. 

“What a sight that must have been,” he laughs. He tries to downplay his interest, but Chiyoh is too perceptive, even in this state.

“He was willing to give up the things that typically satiate his hunger,” she says, answering the unspoken question. 

“And, did he stop? Convert to a life of veganism?” he scoffs. 

“No. But not for lack of conviction on his part.”

“What happened, then?”

“She could not love him once she saw the face beneath the mask. Despite his promises of change, of reparation, she would not have him. He let her go.” 

“Who was she?” he inquires softly. 

“His aunt. My mistress, when I was a ward in their house...” she continued indolently, staring at the florid ceiling tiles.

“Murasaki,” he answers, experimentally forming the word in his mouth. 

“Yes,” she says. Hearing the name from his lips brings a flash of clarity to her eyes. “He should be telling you this. Not I,” she discloses and makes an attempt to prop herself up on her elbows.

With no small amount of effort, she reaches an arm back to the end table behind her and grabs a tall, pear-shaped glass bottle with a broken seal of red wax dripping down it’s curves. She hands it to Will. 

“A toast. To the pair of you. You goddamned fools.”

He smiles tersely and accepts, taking a drink straight from the bottle. Hard to argue with that assessment.

“Try not to kill one another,” she adds after swallowing. 

“No promises,” he shrugs.

“He has no knowledge of how to love without violence. Force and upheaval are the ribbons that tie together each chapter of his life, whether by his own hand or that of others. When I first found you in the forest of his youth, I naively thought you might be the one to teach him a different path. How quickly you rewrote my assumptions.”

“That’s the trouble with assumptions.”

She eyes him sternly. 

“The fault lies at my feet for thinking I could place that weight on the shoulders of one man. You can only take responsibility for the actions of your own hands. I realize that now,” she clinks her teeth on the rim of the glass. “As I am realizing I must accept the same maxim. I occupied over a decade of my own life trying to contain the madness of another. Am I devout, or am I haunted?” she asks, to no one in particular. 

“That’s just the alcohol talking. In the morning you’ll be ready to put us down again at a moment’s notice. Or me, anyways,” Will trails off. Comforting is not one of his strong suits. “You’re a good soldier,” he adds.

“I’m not certain anymore.”

“I could introduce the right conditions to _influence_ you to decide,” he offers and the words feel cold leaving his mouth. 

Her attention almost holds a sober light, as she stares at him hard. “Sometimes you sound just like him, I have to remind myself he’s not here in the room with us,” 

Will laughs. “So do I.”

“Your cruelty can match his. Can your kindness?”

Will thinks of the depths of both he’s been party to since knowing Hannibal. The highest highs, the lowest lows. Cruelty and kindness. 

He pulls a loose thread from the cuff of her pant leg and twists it between his fingers, watching the frayed ends come apart from their weave. “Two dissimilar things can often intertwine,” he echoes Hannibal’s words. 

Chiyoh remains silent. 

He licks his lips and takes another drink. He thinks of the cheap, rotgut shit he used to buy for himself back in Virginia. This doesn’t burn near as sharp as he’d like. “As you defend him, you condemn him.”

“I condemn no one.” She swirls the amber whiskey around in her glass. “Not anymore,” she mumbles and swallows the rest with a bitter smirk. 

Will watches the way her eyes have taken on a hazy appearance. He gently grabs the glass from her hand before she drops it. He sets it on the table beside him and pulls his feet up onto the couch.

“Do you understand more than violence, now, Will?” she asks quietly, flipping onto her side and settling into the curves of the couch. 

He turns his face away from her, eyes towards the starless night, soaking in the darkness from behind the window panes. 

He conjures images of blood in the sink and sharp teeth on pliant flesh. Thinks of his hands wrapping too tightly around a lean neck, sweat and musk swirling in the air. Thinks of all the scars, scars, scars. He even imagines some new ones. His shadows sing with the wild cicadas cloaked in moonlight, opulent but ringing with the omens of fresh death. 

He turns back to her with a glint in his eyes.

“I’m starting to.”

  
  


. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .

  
  


When Hannibal ventures into the living room to check on his companions, he finds them both asleep in front of a dying fire. 

Will is slumped over on one end of the couch, glasses falling off the bridge of his nose, a book splayed open in his lap. His legs are curled up to the side, intertwined with Chiyoh’s. Her body takes up the remaining space on the sofa. She’s lying on her side, facing the opposite direction, head propped up on the arm rest at an awkward angle. Her eyelids are fluttering gently as she dreams. 

He moves quietly, lifts Chiyoh's head up and places a pillow beneath it. She barely stirs. 

He gingerly slides the glasses off of Will’s face, puts them away in their case, and takes a moment to admire the wine dark stain he left on Will’s neck, ghosting his fingers over it. 

" _Saldžių sapnų, mylimasis_ ," he breathes, running his hand through Will's hair. 

He nearly trips over the whiskey bottle that's sitting on the ground in front of the couch. Though, by the looks of it, there wouldn’t have been much left to spill. He recorks the bottle and places it carefully back in the bureau between the cognac and sake. 

He retrieves a large knit blanket from the linen closet, and covers Will and Chiyoh both in a soft, woolen cocoon. 

He stifles the fire, clicks off the lamp, and retreats to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and leaving comments <3 
> 
> It might be a little while before the next update, as I have plans to go back through and edit some of the earlier chapters for coherence and to amend the style change. But, we'll see.
> 
> Take care and stay safe out there <3


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